I got her call an afternoon that was boring but beautiful, one of those days where you don’t expect or need anything, and you’re just feeling good from such spontaneous, simple beauty. Everything seemed perfect with me, on the outside. On the inside, things weren’t so great: the accumulated loneliness of eight long years was wearing my patience thin. I was exhausted from the wait.
I was on the verge of giving up, and just then my phone rang. “Good afternoon, Mr. Cancio,” she said. “You don’t know me; I have an order for you.” Actually, she didn’t say it; she whispered it in my ear. She softly murmured her charms. “Hello? Who are you? What do you want? What can I do for you?” I asked somewhat roughly, frustrated by the waiting and the interruption. “This is Dayri.” “Who?” “Dayri,” she repeated, with infinite sweet- ness. I sensed it. Immediately. She was the one I’d been waiting for, I swear to god I knew it. Yes, it was her; my woman, my lady, my life partner, my life, my everything. Unconsciously, with the authority of a goddess, she was trying to give me some kind of a message without imagining that she was winning me over without the slightest resistance. I didn’t move; there was nothing I could do to avoid it. I slowly surrendered to every word she said. Without knowing her, I needed and desired her. She came at exactly the right time. She came without me looking for her, by the grace of divine nature.
It took me almost six months to convince her that I was the one that she had been waiting for, too; another six long months without even knowing what she looked like—if she was ugly or pretty, tall or short. But, what a divine wait! What a worthwhile wait! For some people, waiting is oppressive or drives them to desperation. My wait was just the right amount of time to cultivate a dream, potentiate the conquest, and make an angel fall in love with me.
It’s been seven years since that pleasant after- noon that healed my life. Dayri is an extraordinary woman, a goddess in the body of a woman, my muse, my inspiration, the good that heals my ills, my love. Today she uses my surname as her own. I would have taken hers gladly just to be with her. We’ve had an incredible experience, and to recount it in detail would be impossible for me. An intense, full, complete, wonderful love. It would be hard to find a love poem or novel that would do us justice. Poor Shakespeare, Benedetti, and García Márquez. Poor author who recurs to his or her imagination to tell stories of love. An experience like ours has to be lived, to tell the tale. And always, Dayri, the most important thing is left unsaid.