Una musa llamada Angie
Cuando Bo acabó el set, no hubo aplausos: los otros clientes del bar conversaban en voz alta y no apreciaban el talento del músico. Atraído por un imán invisible, Bo se acercó a la muchacha y le invitó a una cerveza. Rompiendo cualquier pronóstico, la chica aceptó y Bo le pidió a Israel, el barman, que trajera dos polarcitas bien frías.
_Mi nombre es Bo –dijo y extendió la mano.
_Yo soy Angie –dijo la chica que tenía una voz dulce y unos ojos maravillosos. De cerca, Angie era más hermosa, pensó Bo mirándola fijamente. Sus dos ojos negros estaban bordeados por ojeras azules que la hacían ver como un animal nocturno.
_Es la primera vez que te veo en el bar –dijo Bo intentando crear una conversación interesante.
_He venido otras veces, pero más temprano. El trabajo queda cerca y antes de volver a casa, me detengo y me tomo dos cervezas. Hoy me he pasado de la cuenta –dijo Angie con una sonrisa.
_Pues te invito la cuarta –anotó Bo y sin esperar respuestas, le hizo señales al barman.
_¡Amar duele! –dijo Angie y Bo la vio como si dentro de ella tuviera un abismo y Bo tuvo ganas de asomarse a ese abismo y desentrañar lo que Angie llevaba por dentro.
Angie fue al bar tres días consecutivos y Bo, se acercaba a ella luego de tocar varias piezas musicales. Entre cervezas conversaban como viejos amigos. Al cuarto día, Bo invitó a Angie a su departamento y ella aceptó. Bastó que cruzaran la puerta para que sus labios se buscaran frenéticamente, ansiosos, hambrientos. Las manos expertas del músico hicieron que del cuerpo de Angie salieran los más rítmicos sonidos, los más vibrantes suspiros, la más erótica canción.
Nunca antes Bo se había sentido tan pleno, como si la piel femenina fuera capaz de transmitirle acordes únicos, perfectos. Entonces, quiso que aquel momento se le hiciera eterno y pronunció una y otra vez, bajito, al oído de la chica, el nombre de ella: Angie, Angie, repetía Bo como si fuera el estribillo de una canción.
_Pero si ella dijo que venía siempre –le dijo Bo, pero el barman lo negó.
Después de eso, Bo buscó a Angie por todos lados, pero nadie la conocía: era como si él se la hubiese imaginado. Triste y despechado, Bo escribió una canción en la que hablaba de un fantasma que venía cada noche y le robaba el alma a un hombre:
“Angie, Angie, haz de mi cuerpo una casa fantasma y quédate”, cantaba Bo aquella canción, que con los meses se convertiría en un hit y sonaría en todas las emisoras radiales del mundo.
This is my entry in the weekly #risingstar contest. If you want to participate, here is the invitation post.
Todas las imágenes son gratuitas y el texto fue traducido en Deepl.
HASTA UNA PRÓXIMA HISTORIA, AMIGOS
[English version]
While Bo was playing his keyboard, a young woman with long black hair and a sad look appeared in the bar. It was raining outside, so Bo figured she was going into the bar just for shelter, but no. She sat at the bar and ordered a beer. The girl sat at the bar and ordered a beer. She was alone and drank the beer thirstily, in two gulps, then ordered the other one and that one she did drink slowly.
When Bo finished the set, there was no applause: the other bar patrons were talking loudly. Drawn by an invisible magnet, Bo approached the girl and bought her a beer. Breaking all predictions, the girl accepted and Bo asked Israel, the bartender, to bring two ice-cold polaritas.
My name is Bo,” she said and extended her hand.
I'm Angie,” said the girl who had a sweet voice and wonderful eyes. Up close, Angie was more beautiful, Bo thought, staring at her. Her two black eyes were rimmed with blue circles that made her look like a nocturnal animal.
This is the first time I've seen you at the bar,” said Bo trying to make interesting conversation.
I've been here before, but earlier. Work is close by and before I go home, I stop and have two beers. I've overdone it today,” said Angie with a smile.
Well, I'll buy you a fourth,” Bo noted and without waiting for an answer, he signaled the bartender.
That night they talked about everything: music, life, death. Angie was going through a breakup and Bo was recovering from the death of his wife:
_Love hurts! -said Angie and Bo saw her as if she had an abyss inside her and Bo felt like peering into that abyss and unraveling what Angie was carrying inside.
Angie went to the bar three days in a row and Bo, would approach her after playing several pieces of music. Between beers they would chat like old friends. On the fourth day, Bo invited Angie to his apartment and she accepted. It was enough for them to cross the door for their lips to search each other frantically, anxiously, hungrily. The musician's expert hands made Angie's body emit the most rhythmic sounds, the most vibrant sighs, the most erotic song.
Never before had Bo felt so full, as if the female skin was capable of transmitting unique, perfect chords. Then, he wanted that moment to last forever and pronounced again and again, softly, the woman's name: Angie, Angie, Bo repeated as if it were the refrain of a song.
The next day, Bo waited for Angie at the bar, but the girl didn't show up. She didn't show up the next day, or the next. Bo thought he was going crazy when Israel, the bartender, told him that he had never seen the girl before:
But she said she always came here,” Bo told him, but the bartender denied it.
After that, Bo looked for Angie everywhere, but nobody knew her: it was as if he had imagined her. Saddened and scorned, Bo wrote a song in which he spoke of a ghost who came every night and stole a man's soul:
“Angie, Angie, make my body a ghost house and stay,” Bo sang that song, which over the months would become a hit and play on every radio station in the world.
