I Confess What I Imagine When That Song Comes On

I never told anyone, and that’s why I’m writing it here, where nobody knows me. It happens to me with music. A random song comes on—one that everyone else hums along to without thinking—and I stop hearing the lyrics. The melody gets under my skin and starts building another story, a version nobody ever sang. I strip the songs bare on the inside. I make them filthy in my head. And there are three that always come back, as if they were waiting for me. These are them.

***

The first one gets me every time one of those sad cabbie ballads starts playing. Then I’m the one driving, at night, in an old car that smells like gasoline and cold cigarettes. The city slides past the window like a woman who won’t look at me. I’ve been driving for hours without picking up a single fare, and the tank is nearly empty, just like my wallet.

On a dimly lit corner I see her: a shimmer of sequins under the streetlight. A woman in high heels, with a short dress clinging to her body and makeup smeared from something she’d been crying about. I brake hard. She gets in the back in one slow motion, crossing her legs, and her expensive perfume fills the whole car.

—Take me far away —she says in a hoarse voice—. Anywhere, but far from here.

I drive off. In the rearview mirror I can see her face, her red eyes, her tight mouth. I ask her what happened and she spills everything at once: some rich guy who treated her like an object, used her and left her waiting.

—He thinks he owns the world because he’s got money —she spits—. And me, like an idiot, I believed him.

—He’s not worth it —I tell her, looking at her in the mirror—. And if you want to get even, I’ll help you.

She smiles for the first time. It’s a dangerous smile, the kind that runs down your spine. Her name is Malena, she tells me, although I know in the fantasy I’m the one inventing it. I turn down a dark street I point out to her and, when I look back in the mirror, I discover she’s slowly hiked her skirt up, showing me more than she should.

—So what does a cab driver like you do seducing the night? —she asks, amused.

I don’t answer. I speed up to her house, one of those mansions with high iron gates and a perfect garden, and I follow her inside as if an iron magnet were dragging me. She pulls out a bottle, we drink straight from the neck, the alcohol burning my throat.

—Show me how a woman like that gets revenge —I tell her, moving closer.

She laughs. She slips the straps of her dress off and the fabric falls to the floor in one yank. I kiss her with anger, against the wall first, then on the living-room rug. I run my mouth over her neck, I bite her nipples just enough to make her arch her back and dig her nails into my shoulders. I go lower, with my tongue, and she grabs my hair and pulls me against her, panting my made-up name.

When she can’t take it anymore, she turns me over and climbs on top. She moves over me with her eyes closed, her hands planted on my chest, faster and faster, until she’s shaking all over and collapses on me with a long cry. I don’t let her go. I flip her over again, lift her hips, and finish while she bites down on her forearm so she won’t wake up the whole block. We come together, sweaty, stuck together on the expensive rug of a guy neither of us knows.

—You’re not alone —I tell her after, catching my breath—. I suffer in my neighborhood, you suffer in your mansion, but the pain is the same.

In the version I make up, afterward we go together to an elegant bar so her ex can see her. And there, in a corner, is the rich guy holding some other humble woman in his arms. When I get closer, my blood runs cold: the other woman is mine. The city is small and fate is shit. Malena understands everything with one look and, instead of making a scene, she smiles at me, mischievous.

—Now we play the same game —she whispers.

And the song ends, and I’m back to being just another guy on the bus, staring out the window as if nothing had happened.

***

The second one hits me with a romantic cumbia, one of those they blast from the neighborhood cars. Then I’m a guy coming home smelling like workshop grease after a day without work. I walked twenty blocks under the sun so I wouldn’t waste money on the bus, and I arrive with my T-shirt plastered to my back.

She’s in the kitchen, her back to me, stirring something on the stove. I tell her I lost my job again, that’s why I’m late and why I walked. I brace for a scolding, but when she turns around her eyes are a little red and her face is one of relief.

—I thought it was something else —she says, coming closer—. I thought there was another woman. If it’s only work, I almost feel at peace.

In my head her name is Lucía. She has her hair down, a white T-shirt with nothing underneath, and she presses herself against me without caring that I’m dirty.

—Money doesn’t matter to me —she murmurs against my chest—. I’ve got you, and that’s enough for me. I like you the way you are.

That line always undoes me. I pick her up and she wraps her legs around my waist. I carry her to the old couch, which creaks, and yank her T-shirt off. I kiss her breasts slowly, then hungrily, while she fumbles with my belt and keeps repeating in my ear that even if the sky falls I’ll never be alone.

I pull her pants down and find her soaked. I stroke her with two fingers until she twists and asks for more. Then I sink into her all at once, all the way in, and she screams my name with her nails in my back. Every thrust makes the couch creak against the wall, and neither of us cares.

—Harder —she begs, hoarse—. I want to feel you all the way inside.

I turn her over, put her on her knees on the couch and take her by the hips. I slap one ass cheek and she lets out a filthy moan, asking for another. I keep going like that, setting the pace, until I feel her trembling and clenching around me. She comes first, her face buried in the backrest. I hold out a little longer and finish over her back, watching her still shiver.

Afterward she curls up naked against me, sticky, and outside the cumbia is still playing from some car.

—Never leave me —she tells me—. No matter what happens.

—Even if we don’t have a dime —I answer—, this isn’t ever going away.

And I believe it. In the fantasy, I always believe it.

***

The third is the one I talk about least, because in that one I’m not there. I’m just the one watching. It happens to me with one of those sweet songs about comforting a crying friend. And then I see two women in an apartment, at night.

One is a wreck on the couch, eyes swollen shut. Her boyfriend left her for someone else and she feels like the world has come crashing down on her. The other, her best friend—in my head her name is Ana—looks at her from the doorway, not knowing what to do. Then she comes over, sits beside her and hugs her.

—I don’t want to see you like this —she tells her—. If you’re sad, don’t keep it inside.

The embrace lasts longer than it should. Something changes in the air. Ana feels the heat of the other woman’s body against her own, the curves she’s always admired out of the corner of her eye, and a shiver runs through her that she didn’t expect. She strokes her back slowly, down to her waist.

The friend lifts her face, lips trembling, and looks at her in a new way. She doesn’t pull away. Ana cups her cheek and kisses her, first softly, then with her mouth open, and the other woman answers with a surprised moan, tangling her fingers in her hair.

—I know how to get rid of this sadness —Ana whispers—. Let me show you.

She opens her blouse and kisses her breasts without rushing, leaving warm marks, while the other woman arches her back and begs her not to stop. She goes down over her stomach with her mouth, strips off what’s left of her clothes and finds her wet, ready. Ana tastes her slowly, with her tongue, and the friend stops thinking about the man who left her. She grabs the couch, moves her hips, pants things she never quite says out loud.

—Sorrows come and go —Ana murmurs between kisses—. You’ll laugh again, just wait and see.

The friend comes with a scream, trembling all over, and before she can catch her breath she’s already pulling Ana toward her, wanting to give her the same in return. I see them roll together across the bed, tangled up, laughing between moans, taking turns, unhurried and guilt-free, until both of them are spent and holding each other, shining with sweat.

—I want to see you happy again —Ana says in the dark.

And I, who’m only the one listening to the song, turn off the radio before it ends. Because I know that if I keep listening, I’ll be awake all night.

***

That’s what I confess. I don’t do drugs, I don’t really cheat on anyone, I don’t do anything I’d need to hide from the law. But every time a song comes on in the street, in the supermarket, in somebody else’s cab, people see my calm face and have no idea what movie I’m watching inside. Now you do. And the next time you hear an old ballad, maybe the same thing will happen to you, and you won’t tell anyone. Just like me.