DOS GARDENIAS PARA TI

01 - LA GATA

The year was 2018.
Eighty one years before.

"Dos gardenias para ti, con ellas quiero decir
Te quiero, te adoro."

     The rain —if you could even call it that— from the west never gave him the comfort that others found. Porous clouds only ever shed enough to lift the heat from the ground, humidity rising as a result. That fear of a flood, that fear of mother nature's sheer force— it didn't exist here. And that comfort of being underneath a roof to hide from it was never found as a result. That coziness, that gratifying sensation— nothing but left to the imagination.
     New Jersey proved different— there he found that rain all seemed so fond of. The rain that actually tamed heat, the cold that people actually feared. The clouds were now clustered, shielding all light given by the sun, shielding all cosmic entity that might've passed by.
      And in a rainy day, he met her: a girl who carried the sky in her eyes and the moon in her hair. He soon discovered she was who called the rain for each time she wept, the coldness he felt in his heart surpassed that of any other storm.
In New Jersey, he got to know what true rain was and he got to see it in her.
     Her kisses were just as gentle and wet as the droplets. Her eyes were just as soothing and calm as a sea of the same substance. Her touch was the only warmth he'd get— the only thing that separated her from the rain— but even then, her skin was just as cold.
     Now, many years later, he lives in Nueva York, a place where the rain also instills fear— but it's different. The times have changed, and she's long gone.
She's no longer there, but her reminder is.
     A single droplet of water running down the window sends a chill down his spine as he remembers her touch and how it lingers. A single struck of lighting reminds him of her fury and anger whenever he did something she found incredibly stupid— and she was right, of course. A single gust of the wind carried her voice, taunting him of the past that never was, that never could've been.
His hands press against the piano keys, composing love letters of the person he fell in love with. Melancholic keys that express the wounds in his heart— whimsical keys that express his gratitude for things having gone the way that they did.

      The rain. . . it continues to neglect him of any comfort.
It continues to bother him.
It continues somewhere far.