TODAY IS NOT FOREVER
By J.B
Prologue
The woman sitting in La Casa Azul's café looks fragile, almost childlike, despite being clearly in her late thirties or early forties. She has a delicate web of wrinkles under her tired eyes, and her blonde hair is tied back into a ponytail, revealing a long, slender neck, a sharp jawline, and a pair of silver and opal earrings. She wears a white skirt with mauve and garnet coils embroidered along the hem, as if dark secrets were woven into the fabric. The collar of her blouse is fastened at the neck with a rhinestone cherry blossom-shaped brooch. Although it's a cheap trinket, she treasures it more than all her other jewelry, including her grandmother's pearl necklace, because it was a gift from someone whose loss she thought she’d never overcome.
“I want to do with you what springtime does with cherry blossoms,” she whispers, echoing the words of the poem someone used to recite to her.
They were both young. Both believed that their love would never fade, like the colorful coils on her skirt. Both had big dreams that they were sure would come true someday.
The steam from her second espresso rises above the cup like ghosts of those big dreams that finally slipped away, not only fading but also leaving a bitter taste.
Her gaze is fixed on the artwork on the walls—pictures of Frida Kahlo, her favorite artist, whose house once stood in this very spot and whose essence still permeates the air around her. To the right, Kahlo with a Capuchin monkey on her shoulder. In front, a portrait of Frida in an orthopedic corset after her tram accident, looking both fierce and vulnerable. Just above the table, at eye level, the painter, surrounded by lush greenery and blood-red flowers, with tears streaming down her face, captures the essence of her ache and her passion for life with every stroke.
It is one of her weekly visits, a carefully crafted ritual that gives her a break from the relentless pressures of daily life. She wonders if the serene sanctuary of La Casa Azul once brought the same comfort to the artist as it does to her.
Each time she steps into the calming shadows of this place, she manages to escape the specters of her still-lingering past. Here, she forgets the visions of the plane crash that claimed Grazia, her mother, when she was just a child. The peaceful atmosphere of the museum temporarily hushes the flashbacks of the day Mexico erupted into chaos after an 8.0 earthquake devastated the capital, burying countless people under the rubble and leaving destruction in its wake. Here, she replaces the nightmare of those traumatic events with acceptance and, yes, a faint desire to move forward and embrace the present.
Over endless cups of coffee, with Frida's spirit cheering her on, she reflects on the moment she caved under pressure and ignored her instincts. Here, she can appreciate how that decision shaped her into the woman she is today.
But above all, even if only in her mind, she can turn back the clock and recover the innocence and joy that were hers before the hardships—one after another—sneaked up on her. Before her world was shattered and she was left to pick up the pieces alone. She drains the last of the espresso and is about to stand up when a figure standing next to the table casts a shadow over her. Startled, she looks up to see a familiar face staring back at her. It is not the spirit of Frida, of course.
"Just the person I was hoping to see," she says, realising that despite everything that has happened and all the time that has passed, maybe, just maybe, there’s still hope for happiness tomorrow. Because, as someone once said, today is not forever.
to be continued...
Author Notes: Emily Martel is the pseudonym of Jolanta Polk. This is her first romance/mystery/thriller.
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