Beatrice has red hair. Beatrice has green eyes. Beatrice has what it takes. In the afternoon, she lingers with her friends in front of school. Beatrice doesn’t have a boyfriend. Last year, I went to her party: it was a dream. I spent my time hiding behind something or someone so I could stare at her and chisel her each and every gesture into my memory. My brain transformed into a camcorder so that my heart could see again, at any moment, the most beautiful film ever shot on the face of the earth.
I don’t know where I found the courage to ask for her number. In fact, I didn’t find it. … After summer vacation, her friend Silvia gave it to me. But I don’t think she told her she had given it to me. Maybe that’s why she hasn’t answered me. Maybe she doesn’t know that I’ve been the one writing to her. On my cell phone, she is “Red.” Red star, sun, ruby, cherry. Still, she could answer, at least out of curiosity.
Was I or was I not a lion in my former life? This is why I insist. I lay in ambush in the forest, and, at the right moment, I jump out of the bush and capture my prey, cutting off its every means of escape by forcing it into a clearing without any place to hide. I will do the same with Beatrice. She will find herself face-to-face with me, and she will be forced to choose me.
We are made for each other. I know it. She doesn’t. She doesn’t know that she loves me. Not yet.