La cita

Imagen de Pixabay, de libre uso, y texto traducido con Deepl

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![Click here to read in englis]
Why should people be suspicious of me, if you have only told your friends that I am a perfect guy, the prince charming you always dreamed of, the protagonist of those pink novels you used to buy every week at the bookstore where I work. Those novels that made you sigh and that I memorized and then repeated in front of you, that you looked at me as if I were the protagonist of your life.
No one has ever heard what I thought every time I chased you through the dark streets on your way home. Nor when, in the shadows, I looked out the window of your room as you touched your body, perhaps thinking of the smile I gave you that day or the brief touch that made your body shudder and your most intimate cavities moist.
Who can imagine that I created a reading chat just to know about you and now I not only have your cell phone number, home number, date of birth; I know that you lived alone, that your parents live far away, you told me that once when I refused to accompany you home:
_It's okay. You can come whenever you want - and I refused with an excuse I had read in one of your silly novels.
By refusing me you put me on an altar, at the pinnacle of your appreciation. That was perfect. Few men refuse an invitation like that, I'm sure you told your girlfriends, who with little adolescent squeals assured me that I was the perfect one, the man they'd always dreamed of.
No one needs to know that I dreamed of the time to have you, to feel the skin of your neck in my hands, to hear your screams in my ears. No one needs to know that on the day of your first date with me I brought you yellow flowers, your favorite ones, the ones I justly bury with you.