Camellias for Elena

As soon as I walked in, my heart skipped a beat. There she was, sitting alone at her little table in the back. Ever since we were teenagers, Elena had that ability to make me freeze at the sight of her, entranced by her unique grace and beauty. I could pick her out in a crowd on a foggy day.

I made my way through the maze of small tables, sliding across the light blue and beige checkerboard tiled floor, avoiding tripping over canes, walkers, and the bags of visitors propped up next to the chairs. The autumn morning sun gently entered through the large window and added warmth to the atmosphere of the spacious hall. A murmur of quiet voices bounced off the pine-paneled walls lined with cheap reproductions of Impressionist paintings.

I ran into Adalberto, the kinesiologist, who gave me a thumbs-up when he noticed the bouquet of camellias I was carrying in my hand.

Finally, I got to her table.

"Hello, my precious," I said as I sat down next to her.

Elena looked at me with her most innocent expression of demure bewilderment, her little nose wrinkling in a sensual pout and her deep blue eyes widening. I remained hypnotized for a few moments studying her perfect features to which time had added a few wise wrinkles here and there, granting them a dignified old age.

"I brought you your favorite flowers," I told her, placing the bouquet of white camellias next to her hands as she nonchalantly drummed her pretty wicker fingers against the edge of the Formica table without tablecloth.

She looked at me half surprised and half scared for an instant. Then, she composed herself and smiled stoically.

"I don't know who you're confusing me with, sir," she told me in a whisper in her lovely singsong voice, "but I thank you all the same for your gallant attention."

Elena spent a few moments admiring the camellias, with their intricate and perfect petal patterns, without daring to touch them. She leaned in to sniff them, then abruptly sat upright.

"They have no scent," she exclaimed, with an expression of disappointment.

"But they are still very beautiful," she added, smiling.

"They say that white camellias represent pure and lifelong love," I told her, expecting a change in her register towards me. She didn't even look me in the eye.

I was tempted to grab her hands and stay there, stroking them forever, but her undaunted smile kept me from doing so. I deduced that, in her own way, Elena was happy.

The minutes passed and I remembered, as always, our first kiss, cradled by the waves that lapped the beach, that summer in La Paloma. I once again immersed myself in the perfect corners of her lips and in her abysmal blue eyes. I was amazed to see her wrinkle her nose again in her characteristic pout and then recover her anonymous mask.

We were silent for several minutes. I was entranced contemplating her and she was innocently lost.

I wanted to say some nice parting phrase, but I couldn't think of any. I got up with a broken heart and slowly walked away.

As I left, I ran into Adalberto again, who was massaging Mrs. Rubinstein's crippled arm.

"How did it go, Mr. Ugarte? Did your wife like the flowers?"

I gave him my best circumstance smile.

"Absolutely. The best gift for our anniversary. Not everyone makes it to number fifty."

When I turned to look at Elena for the last time, I couldn't find her.