“Que não seja imortal, posto que é chama, mas que seja infinito enquanto dure.”

Estação do move no horário de rush.

A mulher entra no ônibus, com o celular no ouvido, e não fala, apenas ouve, enquanto suas feições vão se alterando.

De repente, explode num choro incontido, enquanto enfia o celular dentro da bolsa.

Em pé, em meio aos passageiros, ela soluça alto, e eu, assentada, ofereço-lhe o meu lugar, mas ela recusa com a cabeça e a mão, já que não consegue falar de tanto chorar. Pergunto-lhe o que de grave aconteceu.

Descontrolada, ela responde que acabou de saber que o marido a traiu.

Aliviada por saber que não é notícia de acidente ou morte, esboço um sorriso e lhe digo para não chorar porque ela não o merece.

Antes que ela me dirija alguma ofensa pela alteração do seu olhar, explico-lhe: “Nessa situação, geralmente, é clichê as pessoas nos consolarem dizendo que o outro não nos merece, pois somos melhores que ele, etc., etc., mas eu lhe afirmo que é você quem não o merece, porque uma pessoa que age desse jeito, traindo a nossa confiança, não podemos querê-la ao nosso lado, e, muito menos lamentar a sua ausência da nossa vida, afinal, quem quer ao lado alguém que não nos respeita?”

À medida que me ouve, ela vai se recompondo, enxugando as últimas lágrimas que lhe descem pelo rosto. E, então, eu me descontraio e lhe digo: “Fica assim não, bem. A fila anda e ele não é, de jeito nenhum, o último biscoito do pacote”. Aí, ela já sorri, mas, séria, me responde: “é que hoje também é o meu aniversário”.

Imediatamente, ergo-me da cadeira e convoco os passageiros:

“Pois então, vamos comemorar, meu bem, a nova vida que está chegando para você”, e começo a bater palmas, iniciando um “parabéns pra você”, que vai se somando às palmas dos outros passageiros.

E, então, um homem se aproxima, abraça a moça, e o coro que se faz, dentro do ônibus, a descontrai, embora encabulada:

“Beija, beija, beija…”

E ele toma o rosto dela entre as suas mãos, fita seus olhos, e, suavemente, deposita um beijo em sua boca, com uma salva de palmas de todos.

Conversam durante todo o trajeto, quando resolvem descer perto de uma pracinha em frente a um boteco.

Finjo que ali é o meu ponto e desço também.

Ela assenta-se no banco da praça, enquanto ele retorna do bar com a cerveja, os copos e uma vela grossa que conseguiu do dono.

Ela retira a aliança, põe sobre o banco, enquanto ele acende a vela.

Acesa, a moça segura-a sobre a aliança, despedindo-se do finado casamento, enquanto concluo que, ao mesmo tempo, a “vela” do homem se acende….

“Que não seja imortal, posto que é chama, mas que seja infinito enquanto dure…”

 

 

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