At that precise moment, the door opened to reveal Fabiola, dramatic as always, with a blasé expression.
— Who are you talking about now? I heard "handsome" and "toxic," so I guess it's another guy who deserves emotional death penalty.
We all burst out laughing. Fabiola dropped onto the bed, grabbed Manue's glass, and emptied it in one go.
— Come on, spill the tea. And let's seriously debate the real problem: why are the sexy men always the most messed up?
Manue raised her glass.
— To science, precisely.
Fabiola rolled her eyes and settled more comfortably, leaning against the pillow, as if about to launch a manifesto.
— Seriously, guys like him are the perfect example of what I always say: modern sexism, the kind that hides behind the word "frankness." You know, those guys convinced they're sincere because they throw horrors at you with a smile. They reduce you to your body, then tell you that you are too "sensitive" if you react.
— That's exactly it, Manue intervened. And when you try to make them understand you have a brain, they think you're "making a fuss."
— They want "simple" women, but mostly women who don't talk too much, Fabiola added, rolling her eyes. Respect is too demanding for them.
I let out a light, almost silent laugh. Men like to complain that they are accused of everything, but they would only have to look in a mirror for five seconds to understand why.
I said nothing, but in my head, it was a festival: The poor things, they always confuse virility with domination, compliment with control, frankness with vulgarity.
I took another puff, amused by the energy of Fabiola who continued her speech, shaking her glass like a professor mid-lecture.
— The worst part is that they think we want to change them, when we just want them to update themselves, she continued.
— Version 2.0 of the civilized man, Manue commented ironically.
— Exactly! Fabiola burst out laughing.
I smiled too. The world is full of Yannish: smooth talkers, empty brains, overloaded egos. Fortunately, I stopped believing we could fix them.
A brief silence followed our bursts of laughter, then Manue suddenly launched, in a teasing tone:
— But seriously, Fabiola... when was the last time a man truly turned your head?
I took over, amused:
— It's true, we've never seen you with anyone. Nor even... how to put it... in any sentimental proximity. It's almost suspicious.
Fabiola rolled her eyes, a corner smile.
— You two are incorrigible. I just don't keep count, that's all.
— Or maybe you keep it all to yourself, Manue retorted, laughing.
I looked at her with curiosity. There was this old-fashioned, almost noble modesty about Fabiola that made her hard to figure out. She spoke about the world with passion, but about her own life with a marble silence. She was the most mysterious of the three of us.
Manue suddenly threw out:
— Do you guys remember Kyle?
Fabiola rolled her eyes, intrigued, and I sat up a little, attentive.
— Who is this Kyle? Fabiola asked.
— Seriously, Kyle Sinclair, Prince's friend! Manue replied, smiling.
She settled more comfortably, elbows on her knees, and began to recount, in a raw, uninhibited tone:
— When we all went to eat together at the fast food place, you know... I really had my heart set on him. And I tried to flirt like crazy. But well... he's a little... how to say... distant. He talks little, sleeps a lot, and is so busy during the day that we have neither the time to see each other, much less call each other. It's deadly boring... but damn, I wanted to fuck him right there. And I'm not kidding, I really wanted to feel his body against mine.
I let out a little nervous laugh and caught myself thinking: Obviously... she couldn't stop throwing him fiery glances! The opposite would have surprised me if he hadn't ended up exchanging contacts with her.
Fabiola gave me a curious look, and I found myself speaking, a little ashamed but honest:
— Once... I fantasized about the young Apollo from the iStore. Just one night, but you know...
Fabiola smiled, interested:
— And you never ran into him again since?
— No... and frankly, if it had been him instead of this Yannish, he surely wouldn't have had such a misogynistic and unbearable behavior, I sighed.
Manue pursed her lips, seeming to reflect:
— You can't be so sure. We don't know anything about him, in the end.
I pouted in spite of myself. She's right... I always think I'm too clear-headed, but sometimes I judge too quickly.
Fabiola fell back onto the pillow, a corner smile:
— Girls... sometimes, we know less than we think, but that doesn't stop us from letting off some steam.
I took a puff of my cigarette, letting the evening wind carry away my thoughts. Between confessions, fantasies, and realities, I realized that this little trio had this unique way of making everything light... even the stories of completely unbearable guys.
We had put on our matching pajamas: pink for the girls, and blue for me—I never really liked pink.
We ended up ordering food: tacos for Manue, sushi for Fabiola, and a good kebab for me—because nothing beats a kebab when the night begins to fall.
The living room light was soft, the background music slow, and our glasses emptied as quickly as our anecdotes piled up.
— To our girls' nights! Fabiola exclaimed, raising her glass.
— To our masculine disappointments! Manue added with a burst of laughter.
— And to food, the only faithful guy in our lives, I concluded, clinking glasses.
Around ten p.m., just as we were about to start a movie, my phone vibrated on the table.
I glanced at the screen: Elias.
— It's my brother, I said simply, a little corner smile.
I opened the message and read aloud: «Hi my Moon, how's the weekend at the parents'? Everything okay?»
I smiled softly.
My Moon. Only he would call me that. Seriously, who else would have had the idea to nickname me that? Not a romantic or commonplace name, no, he chose the poetic yet cheesy one. And yet, oddly enough, it had stuck with me for years. He said I had "a face for going to bed too late and thinking like crazy in the dark." Fair enough.
— He's just asking how I am and how the weekend is going, I said, putting the phone down.
But barely had I pronounced the word brother that Fabiola's eyes lit up like headlights.
— Wait... your brother texted you? Elias? The Elias?
I raised an eyebrow, both amused and wary.
— Yes... the Elias. Why?
Fabiola straightened up, elbows on her knees, as if she had just sensed a divine opportunity.
— He's coming back this year for the holidays, right? Tell me he's coming back.
— Uh... yeah, normally... but why the intense look?
Manue burst out laughing.
— Honestly, he's going to turn every head at the hospital with that calm, composed look. The type to make all the patients fall for him, I swear.
Fabiola smiled shyly, as if hiding behind her glass.
— He's... very serious, in any case, I murmured. At twenty-nine, finishing his foreign residency for visceral surgery specialization, he juggles shifts and operations while remaining incredibly composed.
Obviously, Fabiola pretends not to feel anything... but I remember perfectly. When we spent our afternoons at home at fifteen, she couldn't stop looking at him, as if hypnotized. She pretended to be looking at the TV, but her eyes told another story.
Elias, with his legendary calm and quiet humor, had this gift for putting my head back in order—and sowing chaos in my friends' heads.