Mariya by Omanluxury

Just as you were sipping your wine, it no longer mattered that she took ages to reply, never asked anything of you, or that your meetings were a coffee every two weeks always near her place and paid for by you. Or that she barely remembered your name. It wasn’t that she seemed ugly (or pretty) or boring (though she talked endlessly about herself). Still, she offered a breath of fresh air that you liked to take from time to time. Short on friends and overflowing with boredom, you accepted those terms because they allowed you to escape the grey hues of the lightwell in your small room and the gap-toothed smile of your flatmate. That is why you accepted the private party thrown by a friend of a friend of an acquaintance, to which she had told you to come because she could get you on the list. You rummaged through your meagre wardrobe like never before to look as humble as always, yet no one could take away the illusion of believing in your favourite persona, Tony Manero, as if you were heading to the Odisea 2001 disco to shine with a splendid dance. And so you took the metro from a Barcelona neighbourhood to the attic of an old building in the city centre, crossed that door and found yourself in a room illuminated with blue and pink lights, surrounded by strangers chatting and drinking to the misty rhythm of chill music. The first thing you looked for was the wine, and the second, her. You found her straight away, though not in the way you expected. She was wearing a black oriental qipao with turquoise reflections that clung to her torso and neck like a glove on the slender hand of a pianist, highlighting the elegance and charms of her body, nothing like the loose jeans and hoodies she usually wore. Her hair, a mix of brown and blonde, fell wavy on both sides of her face, framing what might otherwise have seemed a too-round head. And she had done away with her usual university glasses to reveal huge blue eyes speckled with freckles on her skin. In short, she looked as she never had before: gorgeous. She smiled, gave you two kisses, chatted for a while and went off to greet others. Leaving behind, like the train of a wedding dress, a rush of scent that was the blow that knocked you to the floor. And there you are, filling your glass once more and realising that the only purpose of your presence is her. You cannot help but look at her every time she passes and feel that you desire every particle of her skin, her hair and even her shadow. And her scent, that scent… You still do not know it (you never will), but she is wearing Mariya, by Oman Luxury. The potent aroma of coffee, vanilla and caramel is boldly cut by the sharp, constant presence of rose, which gives a sweet and gentle result, but also tremendously erotic. The few times you manage to speak with her, you feel intimidated by that ancestral elixir that drives the blood in your veins at Formula 1 speed. Her northern eyes, her Mediterranean body, project that strong perfume that speaks of adult secrets and the beauty of a woman. The sensation leaves you confused: caught between dedicating flowery verses to her or impregnating her until exhaustion before letting her devour you. At the same time, that fresh, bitter rose, that caramelised coffee, contain an earthy, introspective, distant nuance. It is the scent of that train you could have taken but will never board again. All those decisions you did not make, those things you should have done but didn’t. It is the punishment for falling into the trap of sensuality. As you drink, your head grows heavier and you realise a fact that was there from the start: the others adore her. Every time she appears, someone approaches her. Thousands of daggers pierce you when a man seizes any excuse to hug her, to take her waist, to beg for a contact that is elegantly evaded. Because one thing seems clear: she is the queen of the party, loved by all, cherished by none. Her life is a full agenda, yours, an empty heart. You are such opposite poles that it seems a miracle you coincided in space and time. In her nature lies being everyone and no one, like that eagle flying alone high in the sky, which fascinates you for its beauty, freedom and power, but which will never come close for you to admire it better, and much less to give you a cuddle. And you understand that this will eternally be the basis of your relationship, because that is how she is, whom you can see just a few metres away, but whom you feel at a distance of millions of light years. You decide it is time to leave. She bids you farewell with a smile that makes you the luckiest man in the world. You tell her you must see each other again, she nods, and you descend the stairs while the door muffles the noise of the party and your sheer joy of a few seconds ago is poisoned by the certainty that she to you is the soft sand that slips between your fingers and disappears, leaving you its magical tickle. Whereas you to her are nothing more than one of those leafless saplings of the landscape she will forget as soon as she leaves them behind. Back home, you exit the metro and find the city dark and empty. The Torre Agbar, illuminated with coloured lights at night, seems a good example of how you feel. You know that soon, very soon, desire will give way to melancholy because she has taken something from you that you did not know you had inside and that it is now impossible for you to recover. That party you had gone to pass the time has ended up becoming a briefcase full of problems. You think the story of your hero Tony Manero is actually very sad: his family life is hard, a friend commits suicide and he fails to make the girl he is in love with reciprocate. But it is that you do not even have the glory of the dance floor. All that awaits you is the ruined mouth of your flatmate and your room smelling of loneliness. You put on your headphones and start listening to the beautiful chords of “How Deep Is Your Love”. Barry Gibb’s falsetto at the climax of the song manages to scratch at your soul. How deep is your love, and what a pity there is no place to show it off.