OUR LOVERS
Hello.
Can I help you?
Yes.
Will I come back?
Yes, give me a minute.
Got any brandy?
Sure. Which do you want?
I don't know. I've never tried it.
Hang on.
This is the best I've got.
Try it, and if you like it I'll give you a glass.
Good, isn't it?
It's Brand A.
Was that a joke?
It sounded better in my head.
- A glass? - I'd prefer another of these.
Not taking any risks.
Under no circumstances.
- Can I have another? - You don't want a glass?
No.
I don't know happened. It was an impulse.
An act of passion?
I think so.
OK.
Hi, there.
Do we know each other?
No.
But I'd like that.
The routine with the brandy was... promising.
All right.
- I'm... - No, no!
Don't tell me your name. I don't want to know.
Why?
I don't want to call you what everyone does.
Why?
I want to give you a name that means something to me,
one that only I know and use.
You'll do the same with me.
- Find a name for you? - Yes.
But not now. When we know each other better.
Do you think I'm crazy?
- Are you crazy? - Perhaps.
Does it matter?
My pleasure, whoever you are.
No, no, no.
- No kisses. - Of course not. What an idea!
I don't like routine kisses.
- Any questions? - Yes.
But you'll be disappointed. They're clichés.
That's flattering.
- Asking clichéd questions? - No.
We've just met and you don't want to disappoint me.
The first question is so obvious I prefer you ask it yourself.
And if my question isn't what your question was?
I'm sure it will be.
OK,
- but you answer it. - It's a deal.
Can we shake hands?
Yes, because it means something.
Do I do this often?
- Do what? - Chat people up like this.
At times, when you see someone interesting.
- Why you? - Why me?
Why did I pick you?
You think I'm interesting, for some reason.
What reason?
You answer that.
Do you like parks?
Yes, I do.
I love going to parks and watching children play.
Suddenly one child will go up to another he doesn't know
and just say: "Shall we play?"
And they start playing.
When I saw you, I thought you'd want to play with me.
Shall we play?
Sure.
Great!
What'll we play?
That's where we're different from children.
They want to know what the game is.
But you and I will find out while we're playing.
How long does the game last?
Until we're bored.
Any rules?
Yes, there are.
I don't want you to find out anything about me.
I don't want you to know who I am, so no Internet and no phones.
But I suppose the idea is that we'll meet again.
That's the idea.
So how do we arrange it?
We talk.
We set a day, a time, a place.
That's worked for centuries. It shouldn't fail now.
No, it shouldn't.
Anything else?
Yes.
You like to go slowly. I don't.
I don't want to waste time. No beating about the bush.
If I ask you something, you answer immediately.
And if I don't want to?
Lie to me.
Lying is much more creative and fun than telling the truth.
I trust lies.
As someone said: "A lie always tells the truth".
Who said that?
I did, two seconds ago.
Very well.
I'll lie to you.
Any more rules?
Yes, the most important one.
Whatever happens, don't fall in love with me.
Is it dangerous?
Yes, very.
For me or for you?
I have to go.
So, today is Monday.
In a week's time we'll meet there. Around this time.
Perfect.
You and I are going to have fun.
A drink?
Cristóbal, are you there?
My dear partner,
we need the Anton Chekov within you.
This is the situation.
In act one, Ditsy and Bozo are chased by Russian hitmen.
Pure Chekhov.
They think the girls are cops pretending to be mental retards.
The girls are running away because they think
the hitmen are in love with them and the guys are... no, not ugly.
Take it up a level.
I'll ignore that provocation.
What's the dramatic conflict here?
They shake off the hitmen because a) Ditsy vomits over them
or b) Bozo does one of her farts and leaves them unconscious.
Not an easy decision.
If it were, any moron could make it.
- Vomit or a fart. - That is the question.
Ditsy and Bozo.
A girl chatted me up today.
- Seriously? - Yes.
- Are you sure? - I think so.
- Ugly? - No.
Up a level?
Stop provoking me.
Sorry, I mean, very ugly, monstrous, hair-raising?
No, just the opposite. She was really nice.
Remember what I told you I'd thought of doing and you said
- I shouldn't do it? - You did it?
No.
You did it.
You know,
you can combine intellectual brilliance with such pure imbecility
that it has me fascinated.
The thing is, if I hadn't done it,
I wouldn't have been where the girl who chatted me up
chatted me up.
What's her name?
- She didn't say. - Of course.
You can just call her "the girl who chatted me up".
- I didn't tell her mine. - Excellent.
I mean, she can just call you "the guy I chatted up".
She wants us to give each other new names
when we know each other better.
You know she could be fucking insane?
Yes, or what you ayatollahs in film theory call...
- A Manic Pixie Dream Girl. - ...a Manic Pixie Dream Girl.
So, your life is in chaos and you decide to throw in a lunatic
to really fuck it up, right?
She may not be that crazy.
Take that!
Well, I don't think she'll get the Nobel Prize for Sanity.
But you can try to screw her.
A quick tumble could add some light to all that...
darkness.
- One thing I haven't said. - Oh, God. About what?
About the Manic Pixie Dream Girl.
Has it got anything to do with Maria?
No.
Yes, it has.
What would happen
if while they were escaping from the Russian hitmen,
Ditsy and Bozo bump their heads together and swap personalities?
Ditsy becomes Bozo and Bozo, Ditsy?
It's an idea.
I like it.
I like it because if Ditsy vomits and Bozo farts
now Ditsy would fart and Bozo would vomit!
High comedy.
Careful, we don't want to get too sophisticated.
- I'd rather die. - Yes.
- I'm going for a shower. - Yes, you've earned it.
I'm going to explore this line.
Fuck, I love writing!
One week later...
Hello.
Been here long?
Half an hour.
But don't worry. I like waiting.
- I could come back later. - I'm serious.
I think of all the stupid things I don't have time to think about.
By "stupid things", you mean the things you really care about?
Probably.
Look, this is our first official date.
Are you going to do a Paulo Coelho on me?
Don't play with fire!
What can I get you?
Why this excess?
Let's be daring. We'll drink from a glass!
I'll have the same, and to hell with the consequences!
Even though you compare me with Paulo Coelho, I'm glad you came.
Did you think I wouldn't?
Wasn't that possible?
No. In fact, I was looking forward to today.
Why? Do you like me?
- Is that a trick question? - Like almost all of mine.
Then I'll give you a trick answer.
How could I not like you? You're a classic male fantasy.
An attractive, funny, intelligent, slightly crazy girl
who stirs up a bored man with her passion for life.
Are you a bored man?
No. I said that so you'd work at it.
Girls love redeeming men with problems.
- You don't say! - Especially tough guys,
bad boys, cretins...
This is more promising than the brandy routine. Go on.
Someone should tell the tough guys and bad boys
why they score with girls.
Don't stop now.
They think you melt when you see them acting cocky
but really your maternal instinct sees through their disguise.
- And we see the inner child? - Exactly.
The timid, insecure child trying to overcome his fear of girls
by pretending to be the nasty hero of a nasty film.
You feel a tenderness for them and you sleep with them.
You give them the prize.
And that's why we like bad-ass guys?
Their inner child arouses your maternal instinct.
I see.
So it's kind of like incest.
U.I.I. Unconscious Incestuous Impulses.
This is the first time I've verbalized it.
Yeah, well, you shouldn't verbalize it much more,
especially in front of women.
And what's your seduction method?
I act cocky and tough.
- And does it work? - Yes.
At times. Not always. Hardly ever.
But, according to your theory,
you score because you've aroused a feeling of pity.
And deep down, all guys know that.
But we never talk about it. And never will.
It's our secret.
Do you and your inner child mind if I go to the washroom?
No, we don't.
Our first official date seems like the fourth.
Shouldn't it be more banal, more superficial?
I've made an ellipsis. I've jumped forward three weeks.
I see.
Come back to today for a minute,
and tell me something about yourself,
as if we were getting to know each other.
I'm an alien secret agent sent by my bosses
to assassinate the most important political leaders on Earth.
You'd be doing us a favor.
Not really.
The plan is to create chaos and make our invasion easier.
Do you know how you'll kill them?
I have to think about it. It's mass magnicide.
And if I screw up, I'll face an Intergalactic Court Martial.
- What planet are you from? - One in the ass end of nowhere.
Yes, I know it!
Do you have a girlfriend there, a wife...?
It isn't necessary. we're hermaphrodites.
Listen, I'm bored talking about me. Can I start lying?
Talking about lying,
do you have a false Earthling identity
so as to go unnoticed?
Of course.
I can't go round saying I'm an intergalactic assassin.
And what's your cover?
What do you think it is?
You pass yourself off as a guy from Saragossa
who at first sight isn't very remarkable...
Perfectly normal.
...with a job he doesn't like...
Frustrating.
...and a social life that isn't fully satisfying.
Tedious.
Why did you go to the bookstore?
I've never seen you there before.
I like bookstores. They're magical places.
Yes, of course.
Where you find girls like me,
stirring up intergalactic assassins with their passion for life.
And that's your cover.
- You think so? - I do.
Maybe I'm like that.
- No. - Why not?
Because if you were, you wouldn't be real.
You'd be a fictional character.
You'd only exist to help me find a meaning to my life
without caring about your own happiness.
What a writer friend of mine calls a Manic Pixie Dream Girl.
And what's that?
Something that's hard to find.
- Am I a Manic Pixie Dream Girl? - No.
That's your cover.
Like mine to conceal that I'm an intergalactic assassin.
And what am I concealing?
Come on.
I think your heart was broken.
Very recently.
You were left,
which could happen to any of us.
But you feel as if you've been torn apart.
How do you know that?
Are you all mind readers on your planet?
Of course.
But, as well, I saw you.
What?
A few days before we met,
I went to the bookstore
and I saw you sitting with him, crying your eyes out.
And you kept crying for a long time after he left.
As well as an intergalactic assassin, you're a cheat.
You played with an advantage.
Can you forgive me?
You changed the rules of the game.
I don't know if I like them.
While you decide,
can we keep playing?
I have to go.
Will you come with me?
Are you still in love with him?
I can't help it.
He isn't handsome.
He doesn't have to be.
He's a poet, you know.
- Accursed? - Really accursed.
Is he good?
Yes, that's the problem.
How much are you in love with him, from 0 to 10?
Nine?
I reckoned a seven.
He really worked on it.
He's the kind who doesn't stop until you adore him.
And when you do, he gets scared and leaves.
To look for another victim.
He may have had one before he left me.
- You know him well. - Yes.
It's the second time I've let him destroy me.
I hope there won't be a third.
So do I. Because there could be.
You'd go back to him?
If he changed, and changed a lot, maybe.
Is that possible?
My problem is I don't believe in God, but I do believe in miracles.
How big a fool am I, from 0 to 10?
Four.
I was expecting an eight.
No, I'm sure that even if he was a bastard,
you've had marvelous moments, the kind we never talk about.
What do you mean?
I mean that we mostly complain about our partners.
No one calls to tell you about a romantic walk with his girlfriend,
hand in hand, picking flowers, stepping on dogshit together.
But they do say: "Look what the bastard did to me".
Or: "Listen to what the bitch said".
That's how we are.
We moan about the bad parts and say nothing about the great moments
that keep us hooked on bitches and bastards.
You know when I had my last great moment with my ex?
It wasn't the day he left you.
- The day before. - A coherent guy.
Super-coherent.
We had a romantic dinner,
he said he loved me more than anything,
and the next day, goodbye.
I can say it in two ways:
he's a sicko or he's a sack of shit. You choose.
No, they both work.
And even so, I miss him.
Really?
That the difference between real life and the movies.
In the movies a bastard is a bastard.
In real life. a bastard can also be wonderful.
Thank you.
How long were you together?
Long enough to make me believe I was the woman of his dreams.
So why did he leave?
He started talking a load of shit about karma, fate...
I asked if he'd stopped loving me and he said he loved me so much
that a relationship as a couple wasn't enough to show his love.
Why did he leave me? I don't know.
He left for the same reason we leave people and they leave us.
Which is...?
He thinks he deserves better than you.
Fucking bastard.
Yes, insult him!
No, you're the fucking bastard.
- Do you realize what you said? - Accept it!
The fact is, if someone leaves you it's because they think
there's something better waiting for them.
I'm not saying your ex will find it.
Have I disappointed you?
Why would you?
Because I'm not the typical classic male fantasy.
I'm as screwed up as any screwed up girl in the real world.
And in love with a sicko and/or a sack of shit.
Yeah.
Not very glamourous.
Don't worry. You know what I like most in a woman?
- Surprise me. - Her defects.
Then you'll fall head over heels for me.
No.
You forbade me. It's dangerous, remember?
And you listen to me as well?
You might be the classic female fantasy.
Are there any Manic Pixie Dream Boys?
Who knows?
Why not find out for yourself?
I've told you lots of things.
Next week you'll have to answer loads of uncomfortable questions.
It's best to get nasty things out of the way quickly.
The day after tomorrow?
All right.
Do you know this place?
- Yes. - Perfect, because I don't.
My partner recommended it. How about lunch?
Sure. About 3 o'clock?
Yes. I'll be with Paulo Coelho, thinking about our nonsense.
See you then, Manic Elf.
Goodbye, Manic Pixie.
I like our new names!
Hello, love.
I hear you've embarked on a new professional undertaking.
Yes, mom, I've got a new job.
That's great. Shall I open the champagne?
Turn on the tap. It only deserves a toast with water.
It's not what you wanted?
Well, I don't need my degree.
Changing the subject, is it cold in Teruel?
What's the job?
Something I do without describing, or else I'd slit my wrists.
You're joking, aren't you?
Yes, and anyway I can't afford razor blades.
Do you need money?
If you offered me 300 euros I wouldn't say no.
- I'll send you 500 tomorrow. - Thanks, mom.
And don't get depressed.
I'll see what I can do.
Love you.
Love you too.
Don't worry, I haven't bled to death.
Hello.
I'm in the place where we met.
The night misses you.
What do you want?
Shouldn't you be on the lyre, making rhymes?
Why do I have to want something?
Because, Jorge, you always want something.
What do you think I want?
To know if I'm still hung up on you after how you hurt me.
I just want to know if you're all right.
- What? - I keep thinking about you.
- You're joking, right? - No.
Are you sure?
It would be easier to forget myself than to forget you.
I remember you. You're an asshole.
Listen, Irene,
it doesn't take an expert in Freud to see you're in pain, but...
No, I'm not all right. I'm a fucking mess
because an asshole sicko and/or sack of shit
left me for something better!
Nothing's better than you.
- Are you seeing someone? - Of course not.
So, several someones.
Maybe it was a bad idea to call you.
Not as bad as the Nazi holocaust, but no, it wasn't good.
I'm hanging up because I am seeing someone.
- Who is it? - You know what?
- It's none of your business. - What's his name?
Fuck you! That's his name!
You want to make me jealous?
Don't dare flirt with me.
He has the only thing I need right now in a man. He isn't you!
Don't bother firing me. I'm quitting.
Sorry, I hate you seeing me like this.
Ready for loads of uncomfortable questions?
All right.
Are you married?
She hasn't asked if you're married?
No.
Is that good or bad?
Both things.
Good, if she likes you so much she doesn't care if you're married.
Bad, if she doesn't want to sleep with you and so she doesn't care.
I didn't say I wanted to sleep with her.
- Yes, you did. - No, I didn't.
Yes,
when you said she was really nice.
You're a guy.
If you like a girl, of course you'd like to screw her.
Girls, on the other hand, are a different matter.
They may like you, but not to use you sexually.
It's for something more sinister.
- To devour our souls? - Worse.
So that you listen to them.
Listen to them and...?
That's all!
They don't want you to solve their problems, or to save them.
Just listen to them.
It seems easy.
But it isn't!
Listening isn't the same as hearing what they say.
It's hearing and caring. They have to feel you're interested.
If it seems you're listening but you don't give a shit,
they'll realize and then you're lost.
And then,
then they'll devour your soul.
- You're wise, Cristóbal. - I know.
But I don't see the theme of this scene.
- The theme? - Yes, scenes are about something.
- What's this one about? - What do you think?
I don't know, I'm listening to you like you were a girl.
- Do you care what I say? - Do you think I care?
You'd better care.
I care.
Is this how you listen to her?
Yes.
Then don't worry, she won't devour your soul.
And you might hook up, or you might not.
That's the theme!
That we might or we mightn't?
Exactly!
- A hell of a theme! - It's always been the theme.
The Great Theme.
Fuck the catfish!
Write, dear colleague!
Let those fingers gallop free over the keys.
We've found the Grail!
God, I love going fishing!
The next day...
I owed you this.
I was expecting "loads of uncomfortable questions".
Later.
Guess who rang me the day before yesterday.
I'll say someone at random.
Your ex.
His name is Jorge.
Are you back with him?
No!
Then I'll keep calling him "Sack of shit".
Fucking Sicko and/or Sack of shit.
I gave it to him with both barrels.
Why the display of violence?
It just came out.
I couldn't have done it without you.
If you hadn't said all that,
I'd have shit myself when I heard him.
So thank you for being such a bastard.
Why did he call?
He felt guilty and wanted to hear I was OK so he'd feel better.
How bad did you make him think you were, from 0 to 10?
10,000.
Before I hung up I told him I was with you.
I wanted to make him jealous.
- And did you? - Yes.
After I hung up and cried for a bit, we talked.
- You and him? - You and me.
You did me a lot of good.
Do you often talk to yourself?
Manic Pixies do things like that.
What did we talk about?
I asked you loads of uncomfortable questions.
- Such as? - Are you married?
Very?
Quite.
To a woman?
I think so.
Is she an intergalactic assassin too?
Almost. She's a bank manager.
Shit.
And you love her?
A lot?
When you asked me all this, were my answers the same?
No.
What did I say?
That you were single.
Just a minute.
Yes, Cristóbal?
Go ahead.
Yes, yes, Cristóbal, of course.
No, no, no, Cristóbal, of course not.
I'm buying time.
For what? A good question.
Did you fake the call?
What? No.
Yes.
How did you know?
1 . Your phone didn't ring. 2. I'm brilliant.
Why did you do it?
Because I'm a control freak.
I wanted to prepare what I'm going to say.
And have you?
- You didn't give me time. - Too bad. No matter, tell me.
Tell me.
I've been married for five years.
Do I love my wife? Yes. A lot? Yes.
Does she love me? Yes. A lot? I don't know.
Or rather, she doesn't know. And while she's deciding,
she asked me to move out for a while so I'm living with a friend,
in Voltania, no less.
When was that?
A month ago.
- What happened? - That's what I asked her.
And the answer was insane.
Nothing.
Don't you realize? In eight years, nothing has happened to us.
That "Nothing" is her way of summing up
5 years of marriage and 3 of dating,
which was quite a shock,
because for me they're full of marvelous moments,
one of which is Laura, our lovely four year old daughter,
who apparently is part of that nothing!
That's enough, Carlos!
I'm sorry, the human being's only commitment is to his passion.
What's the message? You don't turn me on. Get out.
- She's a fucking cynic. - What's her name?
María. Just María.
If you don't mind, I'll call her "Fucking cynic".
That's fine. She always wanted a middle name.
I keep wondering what I did wrong.
And the answer is...?
Nothing.
I followed the Instruction Manual for a Perfect Life, step by step:
studies, work,
wedding, child...
How does the manual go on?
It ends there.
Supposedly, if you do all that you should be happy.
Well, María isn't, and I'm the reason why.
Where do I lodge my complaint?
But Fucking Cynic asked for a bit of time.
Two months.
It's only been one. Wait and see.
I'm doing that. But I know that in the best of cases
in a month she'll tell me to come home because...
I don't know.
She's discovered that, despite everything,
she's still in love with you.
For example.
When what she really means is...
I didn't find the "something better than you" that I think I deserve,
so I'll settle for you, my love.
I've got a whip from the Inquisition. You want it?
Do you beat yourself with it when you think of Sack of Shit?
Not since I insulted him.
You know what?
You should pick up a cutie,
the kind that would make even the Pope a crack dealer,
and make sure your wife finds out.
She'd go mad with jealousy and come back to you.
I see the happy ending,
the two of you kissing like the Lovers of Teruel.
Last night I dreamed about you.
With what permission?
With none. Have I screwed up?
No. I don't like men who ask permission to dream.
We were sitting in a park.
Playing?
What else?
And suddenly a boy and girl came up.
Hello.
Are you in love or something like that?
No.
She forbade me.
Too bad.
We sing songs for people who are in love.
We can sing one for you, even if you're not.
- Can we pick the song? - You don't have to.
It's a dream, so we'll play one you like.
So they started singing.
What was it?
Kind of like Aretha Franklin.
- Your subconscious has good taste. - Thank you, I'll tell it.
And what were we doing?
Watching them play.
That's all?
The girl sang very well.
And how did it end?
It didn't.
I suddenly woke up.
Nice dream.
Thank you.
Does the park exist?
Yes.
And the musicians?
If they don't, they should.
Any more uncomfortable questions?
- No. - Really?
Come off it, I've got thousands!
But I won't ask them here.
Are you from here?
No. I told you, I'm from a very distant galaxy.
- And you? - Me too.
I'm from Teruel.
How old are you?
What do you think?
More or less... forty?
Bang on.
- You? - What do you think?
More or less... thirty.
Exactly.
I'm so old. Ten years older than you.
Jorge is even older.
Am I too young for you?
I don't know yet.
What do you do?
I go for walks with girls ten years younger.
- Do you always make bad jokes? - Yes. I do that too.
And professionally?
I meant professionally.
Are you a comedian?
Almost.
Writer?
Writer-ette.
- Anything I might have read? - No.
But have you seen a film called "Ditsy and Bozo"?
Those two girls who are fucking birdbrains?
- Well summarized. That one. - Of course I saw it!
Did you write it?
I wouldn't call it writing. My partner and I scrawled it.
You don't seem very fond of your film.
If I had pancreatic cancer, that would be mine too,
but I wouldn't be a fan.
Hey, Jorge and I pissed ourselves laughing.
It's crap.
A lot of people were pissing themselves.
It's still crap.
It was a big hit.
- So was Milli Vanilli. - Tell me,
- have you written anything else? - Sure.
We're doing "Ditsy and Bozo 2",
but we've also signed up for the third, which is called:
"DitsyDitsyDitsy BozoBozoBozo".
Original.
Can you live decently from that?
And die intellectually.
I sense
that you'd like to be remembered for something more serious.
Like the play I've been writing for three years.
Three years?
What is it? A reflection on nothingness?
Have you heard of Truman Capote and Charles Bukowski?
Thank you for that subtle insult,
but I can appreciate your crappy films
and read books.
My favorite by Bukowski is "The Fuck Machine", and by Capote,
everything.
They're my two gods.
In fact, my play is called "Capote and Bukowski in Hell".
What's it about?
Capote and Bukowski die and meet in Hell.
I suspected that.
And why don't you finish it?
It's hard to write for your gods.
Writing dialogue for them is like blaspheming.
And if you change writers?
They're perfect, we hardly know what they thought of each other.
Bukowski wrote a poem about Capote, tearing him to bits.
Yes, but he tore him to bits with some respect.
- I don't know if they even met. - I see.
And you want their first official chat to be in Hell.
Yes, and I'm having trouble recreating their voices.
Look, they're two geniuses, they're your gods,
and you send them to Hell. Of course you'll have problems.
I can't even get them to start talking.
What have they done these three years?
Bukowski looks at Capote.
Capote looks at Bukowski.
They look at me.
I look at them.
I think the three of us are terrified.
Don't worry, they'll talk.
You think so?
They're Charles Bukowski and Truman Capote.
Have faith in them.
I know it's against the rules
but I'd like to know a little bit more about you.
You know enough. Why more?
It's important for me.
I'm just a girl who's done a bit of everything.
I've studied a bit,
I've traveled a bit,
I've had jobs that weren't one bit interesting.
I'm unemployed now
and that's more thrilling than talking about my jobs.
I've fallen in love a bit.
At times, I've been loved back.
To sum up,
I've lived, a bit.
And now, The Big Question.
What do you want to be when you grow up?
I want to keep having dreams.
Even if they don't come true, I want to keep having them.
What dreams do you have now?
I've got no money and my heart's broken.
My dream is to be a bit happy. Am I very ambitious?
Megalomaniac.
And your torrid relationship with Capote and Bukowski?
Don't spread it around, but the working class has its secrets.
For example,
my father was a humble bricklayer all his life, but he loved reading.
He gave me the right books at the right times.
The best gift he could give me.
What's your favorite book?
One?
- Are you crazy? - Yes.
I could give you a list of ten.
- I'd love to have it. - It's yours.
And I'll have a panic attack trying to pick only ten.
So it wasn't by chance I met you in a bookstore?
The longer I live,
the more I'm convinced chance doesn't exist.
When María asked me
for two months of "temporary interruption of cohabitation",
I immediately thought there was someone else.
I thought that too.
- She denied it. - No shit! And you believed it?
I preferred to.
But María doesn't dump out-of-date yogurts
before she buys new ones.
You're the out-of-date yogurt?
Anyway, I did what my friend and partner told me not to do.
- You didn't hire a detective? - No.
I was the detective.
- Oh, God! - Yes, I know.
Anyway, I started following her.
Room 237? I'm on my way.
And there's another guy.
There's another guy.
And they meet in hotels,
in my home, in his home,
without bothering to pretend about anything.
If I had any pride, I'd just ask for a divorce.
As I'm not, what do I do? Follow her.
To see what I did wrong, to see what he's got that I haven't.
Apart from your wife.
And, following him,
I arrive at a bookstore and see him breaking the heart
of a girl who is more or less 30,
and a fan of Charles Bukowski and Truman Capote.
Are you saying
that Sack of Shit is screwing Fucking Cynic?
You're right. Chance doesn't exist.
He left me for your wife?
And my wife left me for your guy.
The woman who thinks she deserves something better than you
is with the guy who thinks he deserves something better than me?
How many ways do you want to say it? Yes, they're screwing!
Why did you wait so long to tell me?
Because I loved the start of our story,
if you can call it that.
Look, our partners are fucking each other's brains out,
so call it whatever the hell you want!
All right, I didn't want their story to ruin ours!
Is this the first time someone's cheated on you?
Or the first time I found out.
And you?
Once Jorge thought he was in love with someone else and he left me.
Who was she?
A kind of poetess.
They didn't rhyme well?
No, they didn't rhyme. He came back to me, crying.
And you forgave him.
I'm all heart. And he made such an effort.
He lied to me, to himself...
Not to forgive him would've been unforgivable.
Why do you try so hard?
That's how I am. I see an impossible guy like Jorge
who won't commit, who screws everything, and I say:
You're going to fall in love with me.
It's a girl thing.
María and I were in the same gang.
I never thought for a minute she'd notice me.
But one night she came up to me and said:
Give me 24 hours to prove I'm the woman of your dreams.
- And she didn't need 23 of them. - No.
That sentence was enough.
I met Jorge in Teruel, at a recital.
There he was, reciting verses and looking into my eyes.
When he finished, he came up to me
and you know what his first three words to me were?
You're really hot.
No.
I love you.
Twice?
Twice.
A good sentence. I have to say it more.
He uses it constantly and he knows how to do it.
What's the best thing about him?
He's a man who hasn't forgotten to be a child.
And the worst?
At times the child forgets he's a man.
What's the best thing about her?
Just by looking at you she makes you feel like a god.
The worst is she doesn't look at me now.
She must have turned agnostic.
Why did he fall for you?
Jorge says he feels safe with me.
At the same time he needs risk.
He lives life like an adventure, and I love that.
But I hate his selfishness, and that he lectures me
and that he's always quoting fucking Sigmund Freud.
Why did she fall for you?
I wish I knew.
What was it she said when she left you?
"The human being's only commitment..."
"is to his passion". That's Jorge. Word for word.
- No! - Yes.
She left me with a sentence copied from Sack of Shit?
I wonder who he copied it from!
- Did he use it to seduce her? - Definitely. It worked with me.
Hey,
I can get you boiling oil as well as a whip,
if you want to torture yourself more.
My wife was taken from me with a sentence by... Who?
- Oscar Wilde? - It sounds more like Paulo Coelho.
If that's how you console me, I prefer the boiling oil.
Have you confronted her?
I wouldn't do that even with the Avengers on my side.
You're that afraid of her?
No, I'm not afraid. I'd say I'm terrified.
Introduce her to Stephen King. He's looking for new ideas.
He'd love her.
Being with her
is like being in front of a mirror where you only see disappointment.
Her disappointment or yours?
Hers, mine, even my daughter's, and she doesn't know what it is yet.
One option is to call her and say: "Hi, love, how are you?
Oh, I know who you're screwing."
And if I told you I rang her two weeks ago?
Tell me.
I rang her two weeks ago.
I told her I knew there was someone else.
You know what she said?
What annoys me isn't that you're paranoid,
it's that you're such a common paranoid.
Leave me in peace and go with Ditsy and Bozo!
And after that constructive remark,
she hung up.
But she didn't hang up properly.
And you didn't hang up either.
You heard something?
Was she with Jorge?
They didn't start to... right there?
And you didn't hang up?
How?
I was paralyzed!
How can you be such a masochist? You're Torquemada's erotic fantasy!
At least I'm somebody's erotic fantasy!
I hope you didn't tape the call to suffer even more.
Of course not. I'm not that demented.
You want to know the craziest thing about the matter?
No, I don't, because the matter is my ex screwing someone else.
That's the matter. She seemed like someone else.
I heard them in full sexual apocalypse
and María was nothing like the lady I married,
who never let me experiment in bed.
We followed the same script for eight years.
Look at the 007 films.
It's always the same script but they change James Bond.
Well, María changed James Bond and the script, and that pisses me.
She didn't let me rewrite it and I'm a fucking scriptwriter!
The worst thing...
The worst thing
is that
while I was listening to them
I started to...
Get aroused?
I've never told anyone this,
but María
likes to
hit me
when she reaches...
When...
I heard her doing it to him and I couldn't help...
While they...
Anyway,
it was the first time María and I climaxed together.
Is there anything more humiliating than that?
Look,
I know your greatest dream is to summer in Guantanamo,
but all this isn't your fault.
Jorge is very good at
removing inhibitions.
He's dissolute.
Not dissolute, take it up a level.
What is it with people and words?
Who invented this shit of "up a level"?
The next level up from dissolute has a name.
"Perverted", for example.
The next level is "depraved".
The next level is "sex maniac".
And the next level is the Sack of Shit, your ex,
turning my ex into the hottest porn slut
in the vilest brothel in New Orleans!
- Why New Orleans? - I don't know!
It sounded better than Amsterdam.
Do you know
how many times María did something with me as progressive as oral sex?
Very few?
Not very few, take it up a level!
And there I was, with the phone in my ear,
listening to how she gave your ex what he called
"the best blow job of my life"!
Now that's a title. Forget "Hamlet".
Then María told him all the filthy things she wanted him to do to her.
You know how many she and I had done?
- All of them? - Not one!
- Did you ever ask her? - No!
- Why not? - Because I thought...
Don't think so much!
I thought she'd see it as a lack of respect...
Probably, but perhaps your lack of respect
would have driven her wild. Did you ever think that?
I couldn't ask her.
I couldn't say the words, even with Capote whispering them in my ear.
No.
Not Capote.
Bukowski's better for that.
Try it.
Imagine I'm your wife, you're Bukowski,
and you want to make endless love to me.
Action!
No, no, no.
This is ridiculous.
Hey!
Play with me, Manic Elf.
María,
we have to talk.
Not now, Charles. I'm reading the Bible.
I had a win at the racetrack.
I've drunk two gallons of wine
and I've just written "The Fuck Machine."
Now
I just want...
Bukowski would say "a piece of my ass"
A generous piece of your fresh ass.
I want to tear off your clothes, rip your panties,
throw myself on you...
And thrust into me?
And thrust lecherously into you,
with euphoria,
with brute force.
I want to flatten your body and drill it
until fucking Truman Capote is blushing at the gates of Hell!
Well?
I really liked that kiss.
Wait till I take it up a level!
I've never slept with anyone without knowing her name.
Nor I with an alien possessed by Bukowski.
Replacing Capote with Bukowski was brilliant.
A substitution worthy of Vicente del Bosque.
We needed someone to score.
Why did we do it?
Chesterton said that a mystery story is worthless without a corpse.
I think the same about a love story without a good screw.
Is this a love story?
Well, it isn't a paranormal thriller.
You know what?
I miss my mistresses.
Have you had many?
No.
Technically, only you.
I only slept with girlfriends. That's why I'm saying it.
I miss the mistresses I've never had.
My lovers were very unmissable.
But we'll drink to all of them.
To our lovers.
Carlos?
Hello, María.
Jorge!
Irene.
- My pleasure, Irene. - Likewise, Carlos.
What is going on here?
Irene is the girl who was left by the guy for whom you left me.
I didn't leave you for anyone.
María,
you're a cynic.
A fucking cynic!
What's so funny?
Nothing, nothing. I'm sorry.
You had to bring him to our favorite place.
You brought him here when you started screwing his wife.
That's a very bitter metaphor, especially for you.
It isn't a metaphor.
He followed his wife to you
and then followed you here the day you left me.
Now do you get it?
How long have you been involved?
About two hours.
How many months have you been with him?
I'm not with him.
He's just a friend that I met.
And what you did the other day, what did he call it?
Oh, yes! "The best blow job of my life".
That was a friendly gesture?
In two hours you've learned all about being coarse.
You didn't give him the best blow job of his life?
No, Carlos, no!
I didn't give him the best blow job of his life.
Too bad.
Because a while ago his ex gave me mine.
I wasn't the cause of their break-up.
Who was?
Yoko Ono?
Irene, you don't have to consult the entire works of Freud
to see that their relationship is dead.
Jorge, this may be terrible for your ego,
but reading a book on psychology doesn't make you into Freud,
just like watching soccer on the TV doesn't make you into Messi.
So don't try to be smart.
If you hadn't stuck your little dick into that relationship,
I think they'd still be together, and maybe even happy.
Stop denying it.
It's too pathetic.
When I rang, and you called me a common paranoid,
you didn't hang up properly. I heard everything.
No.
I don't know what you think you heard,
- what you imagine, but... - This.
It was probably a crossed line.
That isn't me.
You know that.
María... María...
María...
You're right, it's not you. Forgive me.
- I'm a common paranoid. - Stop it.
Turn it off!
What is there between you two?
I'm fine.
What?
You asked me the other day, remember?
Don't worry about me. I'm fine.
You hate me.
Not you.
But I'm not too fond of the girl in the recording.
One day I woke up,
I looked around and...
I felt I wasn't alive.
That same day, he appeared.
Why him?
Why not?
It could have been anyone.
Anyone who wasn't you.
Thank you for that morale booster. Ask me again if I hate you.
- I'm not saying this to hurt you. - Just as well!
- Do you want the truth or not? - No.
But tell me.
Seeing you with her suddenly made me feel alive.
- Where's the logic in that? - There is none.
I'm not trying to be logical but it's like...
It's like I gave away my car to buy one that's faster
but really it's worse.
"Give me 24 hours to prove I'm the woman of your dreams" worked better.
Would you give them to me again?
What can they be talking about?
About how wonderful you are.
Thank you for your irony. It's just what I need.
Look,
they've been together eight years, they have a daughter.
What do you think they're talking about?
How's Laura?
She misses you.
You tell better stories than I do.
Do you think they'll make up?
It isn't easy to put an end to eight years.
Even for you.
It's hard to believe you ever loved me,
to judge by your words.
It's impossible to believe that you ever loved me,
to judge by your actions.
You, Sack,
go out and talk to her.
It's over, isn't it?
I loved you, Jorge.
I loved you.
Nice moment.
Thank you.
Was that goodbye?
Yes.
I thought about going back
but I reminded myself too much of Ditsy and Bozo.
What can your wife be telling him?
That she saw me kissing a cutie,
the kind that would make even the Pope become a crack dealer,
and she went mad with jealousy.
I told you.
She wants back with you?
Yes, she suggested it.
You see?
That's why I forbade you to fall in love with me.
Imagine the mess you'd be in now!
I've got a pretty good idea.
Any questions?
All real clichés.
Shall I ask and you answer?
It's a deal.
Am I going back to her?
Your head thinks
your daughter and your marriage deserve another attempt.
And what does my heart say?
That you should listen to your head.
Will we miss each other?
Every time we drink to our lovers.
Because I won't see you again, will I?
She wouldn't understand.
But it isn't unusual for Pixies and Elves to meet in dreams.
I hate soppy endings.
But don't forget me, OK?
I never forget a girl who's impossible to forget.
That's a good last line.
"That's a good last line"? She said that?
She said that.
I'll write it down, because that really is a good last line.
She made an elegant exit,
with class.
She even said goodbye to María.
She's got guts.
And before she left, she gave me a list of her ten favorite books.
Even though I had some already, I bought them all.
Do you regret it?
Buying books I had?
Letting the one who recommended them get away.
If I told you the truth,
I'd be lying.
I'll write that down too.
Fuck! I know you can't have everything.
I know that. But it shouldn't have ended like this.
We still had a month!
Do you know what we would have done in a month?
Yes, made the video clip.
What video clip?
The one with music by, for example, Norah Jones, with happy images.
Irene and you eating face in the park,
laughing in the rain, "we're falling in love" stuff.
That shit.
Shall we play?
It isn't unusual for Pixies and Elves to meet in dreams.
Am I a Manic Pixie Dream Girl?
That's why I forbade you to fall in love with me.
Will we miss each other?
Every time we drink to our lovers.
I never forget a girl who's impossible to forget.
I see the happy ending.
The two of you kissing, like the Lovers of Teruel.
DITSY BOZO
Cut!
Fuck!
I wanted my video clip!
Why can't I have my video clip?
Because that's in movies!
Real life has no video clips and Norah Jones doesn't sing for you!
In real life, you're happy with your lover, your wife appears with hers,
and everything's fucked!
Yeah.
In real life, María is a viper
and she's marvelous too.
You've got too many things in there.
Why have I gone back to María?
I'll explain it to you.
Young people fall in love at first sight.
Romeo and Juliet see each other and, wham, they're in love.
That's all it takes.
When you're older, you question everything.
"Am I in love or just horny?"
"What if, after a month, she tells me to fuck off?"
"What if I get bored after 100 screws?"
So, just in case, you let her get away.
Look,
you decided on María because...
because...
Because I don't think I'm in love with Irene?
Is that what you're trying to say?
If I say what I'm thinking of saying,
I'm regretting it already.
What crap. I'm not writing that down.
Look,
I'm a practical guy, I'm not passionate or romantic.
- I'm not! - Not romantic?
No!
You're an incurable romantic.
So romantic that all the love in the real world
won't match your romanticism. That's your tragedy,
among many others.
- Among many others? - Exactly.
Such as?
María.
- She's my wife... - I screwed her.
- What did you say? - I screwed her.
No.
Remember when you went to Ibiza to discuss "Ditsy and Bozo 2"?
- No. - That night María invited me
for dinner and then seduced me
while your daughter was sleeping in the next room.
No. No. No.
She said something that made it very clear.
Give me two hours to show you I'm the best lover you've ever had.
Sound familiar?
No, no, no, no, no...
- Why would I lie to you? - I don't know.
I don't believe you. I don't care.
We can talk about the two wallops she gave me when she had her...
You know when.
It's true!
You did it!
But because of those wallops everything went south.
No!
Tell me you resisted a bit. Tell me.
Yes, when it was obvious that María was giving me the come-on
I said a subtle phrase I have for scaring off persistent women.
What is it?
I think my dick's gone to sleep.
It goes straight to the subconscious.
I say it, and they leave me alone.
But María kept attacking
and I tried to keep my distance. I said to her:
Is this a good idea?
What did she say?
You're Carlos' best friend.
Who'd treat me better than you?
If you think about it, it was very logical.
Look,
I'm feeling like I would really love to thump you!
What the hell are you trying to say?
Saying no to María would have been an insult to her and to you.
To me? Explain that!
It's like saying: "Your wife isn't hot enough for me to betray you",
or saying she's ugly,
or insinuating our friendship isn't strong enough
- to survive this shit. - Don't twist things!
My best friend should never screw my wife! Never!
Only your best friend would tell you he did it in these circumstances.
Why tell me? I didn't want to know. I didn't need to know.
No! You didn't want to know, but you needed to know.
- Do it. - Do what?
Hit me. Didn't you want to? Well, go on.
Why?
Maybe you've forgotten, but I screwed your wife.
How will hitting you help?
I don't know! But it makes sense.
The real world is shit and we should start living like our characters.
- Like Ditsy and Bozo? - No, like the good ones,
the ones we haven't written yet.
A good character would hit me now and then we'd carry on talking,
me bleeding like an anti-hero and...
That's great!
Thanks, man.
Did I hurt you?
María hurt me more. You want to hit me twice?
I didn't want to hit you once.
Look,
your wife isn't a bad person.
You can spend the rest of your life with her and be more or less happy.
Accept that occasionally she'll establish her "areas of freedom".
You just do the same.
If you can live with those wallops, you can live with this.
Your pal,
Truman Capote, would write a hell of a story about you two.
A bit sad, yes, but a hell of a story.
Well?
What'll you do?
Hey,
your suitcase has just said the best last line in history.
Is this chance?
How did you know I'd be here? I haven't come for a week.
Yeah.
I came the day after we said goodbye.
I waited a few hours, and I left.
I told you it was a bad idea not to swap phone numbers.
That's why I gave mine to the waiter.
So he could call me when you appeared.
You know,
Bukowski and Capote
have started talking.
I'm glad.
And they both agree I have to tell you something.
I won't sugarcoat it.
If you have to say something tough, you say it.
Go ahead.
I love you.
You've copied Jorge's method.
He took my girl by copying Oscar Wilde,
I can take his by copying him.
How do you know I'm back with him?
- You're back with Sack of Shit? - Yes.
In fact, he's due any minute. You can say hello.
Seriously?
Fuck!
I haven't seen him since then.
How could we get back after what I said?
It wouldn't be the first time.
The first and only time we got back
it took him three days to persuade me, three days nagging at me.
María got you back in three minutes.
Not exactly.
How many? Two?
I never went back to her.
I kind of thought that.
I mean, when you said "I love you"...
Suspicious, right?
A bit.
What happened?
May I use a metaphor?
I would never inhibit your creativity.
At times, when you write a script, it's hard to know when to stop.
You've reached the end but you don't realize,
so you keep on and on, trying to find the perfect ending.
And all you do is ruin everything.
My story with María finished long ago,
but I couldn't see the ending.
And what about our story?
We should keep writing it.
And see where it takes us.
It seems like a good plan.
Are there rules?
No.
Just that we keep playing,
Manic Pixie.
Let's keep playing,
Manic Elf.