Casting no shadow
He felt bored one day and decided to go see a movie, no matter which one. So he walked down Martín de los Heros street, entered a cinema and chose a random French film. This was the most important decision in his life: almost instantly, he fell in love with the actress. She was young, pale-skinned, hair black as night, eyes like a universe. When the film ended he already felt a missing piece inside his heart.
He realized he was unable to express that love in words; so big, so overwhelming, so eerie. He had no alternative that to keep living his life: lost some friends, met new others, found a job in number crunching, as he liked to say.
Years passed and he missed no new movie featuring her; he saw great stories, mediocre films and crappy flicks just because she was there. Every time the screen showed her face he felt like a delightful rendez-vous: how is you life, are you doing well, missed you so much. And every time he felt his heart breaking into pieces. Sometimes he even cried, his face covered by his hands, warm tears in the dark theater, always surrounded by strangers. Because love hurts, love is like a sickness, love is a strange and silent death.
One day, on one of those occasions when disappointments pile over each other, he decided to travel to Paris. Once there he felt he also loved the streets, the corners, the chimneys; it was a world that was a bit like her, a bit part her. He also felt the sadness of loving something that is almost not there, a mirage, a trompe-l'oeil. The bittersweet feeling of a life wasted loving a ghost.
And then he saw her. It happened on those tiring stairs in Montmartre, no less; he was sweating and panting while she moved almost like having the wind in her sails. He recognized the crow-black hair, the pale face, the glittering eyes now surrounded by little wrinkles, more beautiful than ever. Twenty-five years ago he saw her playing the grieving spouse of the great composer Patrice de Courcy and that day he started living. He smiled her and she smiled back.