About marriage and Fulgencio
Fulgencio loves me as much as I love him. I say bless you when he farts in front of me, and he tells me I’m beautiful even when I haven’t showered for two days straight. We make a pretty good team. Our first hot chocolate date became a three-day sleepover. I hadn’t slept well for more than a year, but I could sleep through the night on his shoulder.
That felt great, despite my revulsion of warm, sticky human skin.
Fulgencio is the master of distance and space. He knows with almost exact accuracy when to leave me alone, and when to hold me tight.
He doesn’t suffocate me, yet he is not absent. His presence resembles April, the almost perfect kind of weather (that is before climate change, of course).
Every now and then I am annoyed by how perceptive he is. He has a way of reading my behavior, my gestures, and my voice in a sense that makes me feel awfully naked. However, I find sheer content in this kind of connection.
Fulgencio’s presence is like flaky, perfectly baked butter cookies. I can’t help but feel joy when he is around. Just like I don’t want that great cookie to be over, I don’t want to spend too long away from him.
The clock runs a little slower when I’m waiting to see him again. Except when he is on his way back from work, and I rush to the shower to rinse out the Liebestöter/Matapasiones smell.
Three times out of four his jokes are bad, so bad he has to explain them, and I wonder how such a bright mind can produce such lousy jokes. I like to think it’s part of his charm.
Life with Fulgencio is straightforward, fun, and calm. When I am with him there’s nowhere I’d rather be. Aside from the times I am with him and I want to be in Colombia since I’m a foreigner here, and all that.