It was 1995 in Bogotá. I was a commercial pilot. My girlfriend was Adriana, and we were a classic middle-class Catholic family. She was a psychologist who understood the complicated labyrinths of the mind, while I tried to escape earthly problems by traveling through the skies.
From good families and united by a great love, we had a path laid out before us. A good life and a beautiful family. We both loved dogs, which was clearly a sign of the good parents we could be. Young, and united by an intense love, we knew the life ahead. Of course, it was easy, as if looking ahead held certainties, security, universal truths. Easy because my parents, Mauricio and Gladys, had formed a large family—mine, of course, and Álvaro and María del Pilar, hers, Adriana’s.
It was easy to predict that with a few years of work, we would buy our first apartment. Of course, we had gotten married at Santa Maria degli Angeli in a beautiful, small ceremony with our families and a few close friends. Our honeymoon was in Paris. Of course, to please her (remember my hatred of France), where we would walk hand in hand along the banks of the Seine River while exploring Notre Dame, the Sacré-Coeur, the tower, and the museums. Every night we would make passionate love. One night we would drink a little more wine than necessary, transform our bodies into animals, and have wild sex. The next day we would repress it in our minds in the best Catholic way, and with a slightly guilty morning we would overcome it and forget it on a corner, in a small café, holding hands and gazing into each other’s eyes.
We would return to Bogotá, and in three years the apartment would be handed over to us, and she would lovingly decorate it on the days I was traveling. On Sundays we would go to mass and to Alpina to eat desserts in Sopó. Once a year, we would take a two-week vacation to go to the seaside and recapture the energy of romance, walking along the beach hand in hand. On one of those trips, we would make love with such passion that she would become pregnant. Scared and excited, we would face this blessing with trepidation but filled with happiness. Certain that the family would make it. The financial fears would be resolved, and with the birth of Valentina, the family would be complete.
But of course, that wouldn’t be the case. Three years later, in a week on the Irotama, I would accidentally become pregnant again, and little David would join our family. The light in Adriana’s eyes, no lies… It wouldn’t be the case, because the pilot stopped looking at the sun and looked down again.
Si quieres profundizar en la historia de Ícaro pasa al siguiente link.
Si quieres saber que vio el piloto, pasa al siguiente link.
Si quieres saber mas de la rutina de un piloto sigue leyendo aquí.
