Tipsy

“Tipsy” was the first astonishing word I’ve learnt. Move the back of your tongue until you find your teeth in the “T”; wait until the “I” arrives and close your lips for the “P”. Suddenly, it will appear that beautiful “S” Americans have, a sweet vibrant “S”, like a mother ordering her children to stay quiet. Finish with the last “I”, a vowel that can take seconds to end, because you’re tipsy and grammar rules for normal people don’t apply here entirely. This word is with me since then, in every moment in which your head is muddled and stupid smiles tend to escape from your mind towards your face. And now I’m in that situation, sitting in the hood of a white car, at 2 am, looking at the other side of the street. A boy and a girl are walking together, maybe tipsy too. They must be twenty or twenty-one. They girl wears a wonderful short dress and the boy a slim thin T-shirt. Both are handsome: tall, blond and strong. It’s hot tonight and they’re coming back from bars. They are talking and their words are arriving to me as tender as the night is. They aren’t using my mother tongue, but who cares, because those words are the same in thousands of languages and thousands of dialects: something to break the ice, something that’s allow you not hearing the steps hitting the pavement. Sooner enough they will arrive to their homes. Surprisingly, they are neighbors, they discovered during the talk. The conversation is paling: both are almost in the entrance, but they are still looking each other while their hands heads to their pockets to find the keys. And I’m still looking as well, an outsider, a watchman, a person who squeezes images of others, a person who wants ideals and has nothing, a person who rejected a pair of green eyes and a pink jacket. But at that moment, at that precise moment where the key is spinning in the lock, in that hour of the night, under that summer sky, the girl said a sentence that makes life born again in a way that only women can do: “All see you around here!”. And I was happy again.

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