It would seem that every major event in my life has been punctuated by the presence of a woman. From the moment my head —amidst cries of agony and unbearable pain— came out of my mother’s womb, to the point where I left my native country to go live in the US (yesterday), I have had women egging me on, holding me back, making me happy, turning my life miserable or taking care of me.

Most of my relationships have consisted of a mix of the aforementioned, in unequal but always generous dosages.

Her name is Paola.

I met her after my relationship with Livier was over, at a point when the least I expected was to meet someone, with impeccable timing to find her treading water on the same metaphorical bog.

Out of necessity, I never got to fully explore the extent of my feelings towards Paola: The job offer (and subsequent possibility of moving to the US) presented themselves when I had been dating her for about two weeks.

A publicist cum-cinema student, she is pragmatic, strong, thoroughly independent and has the easiest, most musical laughter I’ve heard. Really smart, but not an intellectual. A cynic by trade and a hardened tequila drinker by upbringing, she used to flick my nose with her index finger when I made jokes about her. If I complained, she’d just dismiss me and say “oh, you’re such a baby”.

I loved her for that.

I don’t know how long I’ll be away. I am very excited about the possibilities and the changes that are presenting themselves before me, but the mere sight of the shirt that she gave me (“I *heart* carbs” food pyramid) reminds me of all the stuff I’m leaving behind. It is a weird thing when mirth collides with dysphoria. There isn’t much place left for actual feelings, so you just let yourself go, eventually reach the conclusion that the way to go is to get wasted, toast to her name, and concentrate on the matters at hand.

See you, Paola. It was amazing.

— sergio on September 10, 2005