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2022 · Christian Ives Solis
RECORD VI — 2022: facade maintenance
In 2022, a presentable version of coexistence still existed. From the outside, nothing was breaking. The flat was shared by Claudio, Aracely, and me. And within that geography, Camilo, my partner, had begun to become my physical anchor. Camilo was someone who needed the world to be predictable, orderly, and kind. His presence in the house was my counterweight against the tension that was already beginning to gather in the air.
But underneath, the engine of the house was beginning to burn through oil. What I felt was a real drag. The key was always in my pocket before it was in my hand. What changed was the threshold: that exact second before turning the lock. If there were lights visible beneath the door, the body received the full message. They’re here. I would go in making as little noise as possible, straight to the bedroom. I would close the door and only then release the air, as if I needed to cross the threshold twice to lower the tension by one degree. If everything was dark, the house became breathable. I would go to the kitchen, open the refrigerator without hunger, confirming that there was still some part of the space that required no explanation. Then I would step onto the terrace to smoke a cigarette. Three minutes outside. Outside, the air did not argue.
The kitchen stopped being neutral. It became a place where the body was already beginning to measure how much space it occupied, calculating schedules so as not to coincide more than strictly necessary. One night I closed my bedroom door gently. The latch made the slightest click. I kept my hand on the handle for a second too long. Nothing happened. The flat kept functioning. Confinement did not need noise to be real. It only needed repetition.
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