Oh, damn it, I’m still alive

I take a deep breath and muster up the courage to ask what I’ve been wanting to know for a long time:

“Grandma, what are those colorful bottles for?” I ask, stretching my hands to touch them.

My grandma positions herself in front of the table and smiles at my curiosity.

“Do you see this one, Emma?” I nod to let her know that I’m listening attentively. “With this one, you can ward off any illness, and with this one,” she adds, placing the red bottle on the table and taking a pink one, “you can find the love of a good man, my dear.”

“And why do I need that, grandma?” I respond, looking for something else to catch my attention.

“When you’re older, you’ll understand. In the meantime, let’s use this,” she whispers, taking the yellow bottle.

“And what’s that one for?” I ask as the first drops of the perfume touch my skin.

“This is for when you need to... be hugged,” she assures me, kneeling down in front of me to be at my level and giving me a hug.

The love spreads throughout my body, sparks of happiness flood my soul, and her arms assure me that no matter what happens, everything will be okay.

The alarm sounds. Great, another crappy day. I take a deep breath and gather the courage that hug gave me. Bad days always start with that dream. It’s quite counterproductive if you think about it. I’m already waking up expecting everything to go wrong, and that’s how things end up going. I refuse to continue with this routine; today, I will change my destiny. First, I get up, pushing the sheets off my body. I don’t plan on lying in bed hating my life. I take my phone and ignore the messages. I don’t want anyone with bad news calling at this hour. I quickly find the playlist with the happiest music I have and hit play. The notes start soft and then become energetic, insistent, and motivating.

“Don’t drown in tears, come dance with us,” they seem to shout. So I do, dressed only in a shirt and ugly enough underwear to scare off even the most enamored man.

Minutes later, I start my day, taking a cold and bland-tasting coffee. I have to remember to fix that damn coffee maker.

“No!” I remind myself, “not today,” and I insist on removing any trace of a frown from my expression and smile, grateful that I at least have coffee.

I chew on a small piece of bread and am surprised by how hard it is.

“Shit, I forgot to store it last night,” I sigh heavily and add, “It’s not hard, it’s crunchy, it’s not hard, it’s crunchy,” repeating it over and over again.

I leave the inedible bread on the counter next to the half-drunk coffee, and a somewhat strange idea comes to mind: what if I dip it in the coffee? I take the bread and dip it in the tasteless liquid, stirring it a bit with a spoon and taking the first bite... which I quickly spit out in the cup.

“No! Terrible idea,” I confirm, wrinkling my nose.

Finally, I give up. Is it because of this horrible breakfast that my grandma hugged me in my dreams? I know that this is probably not the reason, but I deceive myself for a few seconds to allow myself to think that the bad of this day has already passed.

I walk slowly to the bathroom, vigorously brush my teeth to get rid of that disgusting taste, wash my face, and get dressed to go to the office... which is in the other room. I open the door, turn on the laptop, and finally start listening to each of the messages left by my clients. Changes in covers, in layout, and even in texts that I already corrected, but they decided to modify; nothing out of the ordinary.

I turn on my Bluetooth headphones and start working, ignoring everything around me.

҉

Through the music, the beats reach me. For God’s sake, will I ever be able to work in peace? I pull the headphones away from my right ear and check that I’m not mistaken: someone’s at the door. I inhale, gather enough composure, and get up to answer.

“Who is it?” I ask, even before reaching the door.

“Mail,” a male voice replies.

They never come early, and today, of all days, they come to bother me. I open the door and come face to face with Nicolás.

“Hello, Emma, we’re having a beautiful day, aren’t we?” he says, holding a package in his right hand.

Since he doesn’t get a response, he hands me the form and stays silent. Just because he’s the assigned mailman for this area and we see each other relatively frequently doesn’t mean we’re friends. I hand him the form, snatch the package, and close the door.

“Oh no,” I say as I see the sender. “Was that today?”

I leave the birthday gift my grandmother sent me on the kitchen table and return to work. She knows perfectly well that I prefer to spend this day discreetly, without even remembering that today, for my parents’ good fortune and my misfortune, I was born.

I put on my headphones and continue with the correction of what seems to be one of the next bestsellers in commercial literature - clichés sell.