dear toni,
do you remember our fights? our quarrels and our arguments?
we were both young and immature, and madly in love. at least i was.
our arguments were rarely serious. you hated it when i called you antonio. it was meant to be an endearment, and your reaction to it only made it stick more. you had scrunched your nose and shook your head disapprovingly, as if there were a list of names in front of you and you were choosing which ones suited you best. teasing you was fun, like a sunny day, where calling you antonio led to too many sharp intake of breaths. i would out my hands up in surrender, claiming it was the spanish in me.
i knew deep down you didn't mind it, because i remember once i had hurt my arm and was unable to straighten it for some time. you had kneeled in front of me to tie my shoelaces for me, and when i said 'gracias antonio,' you shot me a winning smile worth a million bucks.
only sometimes did our disagreements veer into serious ones, especially if we talked too much about the future. that was ironic. you said nothing was decided in football, one minute the team can love you and the next you're being shipped off to england or france because you've made it big or not made it at all. you loved your job, but you hated the uncertainty that lurked with it, like an inescapable shadow peering over your shoulder.
i had asked you what about later, when i finished my contract at work and pursued a masters instead. after that, what would we do? 'we already live together.' you had replied, but your lack of an interested answer has me following up.
you had given me one too many snappy answers and i had thrown the pillow to the floor forcefully before making my way to the kitchen to eat my anger away.
later that night you had crept back behind me with a single rose in between your fingers, readjusting every so often as if you were nervous i would still be angry.
the red in the rose made it impossible to be angry at you, and once again the topic had been done and dusted, pushed under the carpet and not discussed.
maybe that was our fault.
love,
from munich.