The broken photo

Interesting story

By José Joaquín López

A year ago, walking a few blocks from my house, I found some remains of photography lying on the floor. Someone had broken the photos and left them there. I am a little fond of puzzles, so I picked up the pieces and brought them home. They were familiar, normal photographs of some meeting. I managed to compose almost two entirely. A third was not completed, but what scared me was seeing me in it, with people I did not know, with a sad look.

In the photo there were no relatives or friends, nor were there any neighbors, nor did the house seem familiar to me. But it was me, unmistakably. I came out with the glasses I used, my mole on the left side under my mouth was there and I wore my Beatles shirt. I was next to a woman who looked beautiful to me, whom I hugged. It was me. But what was he doing there with unknown people?

At night I used to talk on the phone with my dad about the political situation of the moment. Of the irresponsible declarations of the government officials, of the corruption scandals, of the world events of the day. That day I told him about the photo I had found and he told me that if I did not remember anything, I would probably remember it later.

I scanned the photo and did a Google image search, but I did not find anything. It occurred to me that someone could have added me with photoshop or something similar, but that did not seem to be the case. I searched among my social network contacts, I remembered the places where I studied and worked, but I could not remember or find any information that would explain the photography.

After a while, without finding answers, I stopped looking. I kept the photo in the closet and after a while I forgot the subject. I mean, I did not want to keep looking for an explanation. The photo was saved for a few months, until I met one of the guys in the photo. I did not notice at first, the guy worked for one of the suppliers of the company where I worked in purchasing management. He was friendly and as usual with the purchasing managers, invited me one day to lunch. A couple of his friends arrived, who also seemed familiar to me, but I still could not relate them to the strange photo I had found.

Ramiro, that's the name of the guy, was a musician and once he invited me, I went to see him play at a bar in the historic center. I played drums in a reggae group that sounded pretty good. In the end I congratulated him. Within the musicians there was a woman, beautiful, who played the bass and with whom we made a good conversation that day. Her name was Angelina. I invited her to a coffee the next day and eventually we became a couple. She liked me a lot and I fell in love quickly. I think she was not so much, but we had a good time. I told Angie of affection.

I told my dad in a call about Angie and he said, well, the relationships sooner or later end, either because someone leaves or because they get bored or because they die, but they always end. That the best thing is not to leave the mouth. It was the only time I heard a comment on the subject.

From the beginning I knew that she was the one in the photo, I took her out of the closet and I knew what the fate of the relationship with Angie would be. We would separate after taking that picture and I would go out to break it myself. What I had found was a photograph, on paper, of the future.

Hard times came for the company and Angie went away. I became more asocial in part because with less commissions there was no money to go out. Angie, I think she got bored with me and we ended up on good terms. I waited several months for the photo and finally, Ramiro, the friend who introduced me to Angie, invited me to a concert and I agreed to go. I went with a friend from work. Let's say that at the beginning it was a bit uncomfortable but I was fine and the music and the atmosphere was nice. After the concert there was an afterparty at the house of one of the musicians in which my friend from work took pictures with her phone. At some point in the morning, for no apparent reason, I felt sad and I remembered the picture.

Back home I checked the cell phone and had a text message from my mother. My father was seriously ill at the hospital because of a heart attack he had had at midnight. But I was already stable. Well, I thought, that explains the inexplicable sadness of dawn. I asked my friend for the pictures and I printed the three I had found near my house a year ago.

My father left the hospital and recovered quite well, but he had a second heart attack a week and died. I had not died so important, so the sadness was very acute. I would have liked to spend some time alone, without doing anything or going anywhere, but I had to keep working, because luckily the company had good sales again.

I no longer had anyone to talk about the scandals of politics or anyone to inform me about the history of officials who were accessing the government. Weeks after his death