The man who had opened the huge door key wood as fast as his limp and understanding allowed him still asleep. He coughed and spat before pocketing his pasty body through the blackness of the room. His limping took him to the light switch and everything is lit up yellow sad sad as each day was darkening his life since Wednesday 16 May 2001. That day he gave a double cd Victoria de los Angeles, it was his birthday, and she sent an sms saying
"I have the muzzle Scotland J. You've heard the (allomorph of "la") 1 of the 1st aria. CD? (If you act now do not get too high, just enough to keep the music you bundle up. "
The aria 1 of the first CD was titled "O mio babbino caro " and the man who had the key that night was embraced by the music as a sentence several times. Expired on the old swivel chair skay black holes and opened at the same time the same watch the drawer where she kept everything black means that it matches your body black, yellow plastic sujetapelos still had some hair remaining The package with 7 Marlboro cigarettes and dried, the fusiform and gold spray with her incessant bed when at dawn the left to return with her husband and leaving him with the smell of his absence. He took, as every day since then, a bulky folder containing each of the chapters that she had printed " Alice in Wonderland ." Each was contained in an envelope in which it before placing it on his desk, he wrote "Mr. L., Adventurous and exporter of reptiles." Once again turning them over and stopped as usual in the "off with her head" to smile and coughing and spitting in the same gesture to the spirit of so many days and the fatigue and boredom of so many times, so many times, had become stupid face, puffy saliva dries on the corner of a rotten life. Several hundred more folders crinkled leaves with each of the letters he had written, with each of the emails that were sent sorted by date, printed it in blue, printed in black the him. There were all the writings of the man in the mirror, all thoughts of elliptical subject, all the whispers of the woman in black, all the charms of the roundabouts and cats.
reread, reread again what he did not know if it was passed or literature, or vice tenderness. Put in the CD stereo and two minutes and one second aria lasting lasted all his life again as the smile and saliva and tear in the chest, the bitterness of a little time, so often repeated that it is a more sputum. Techao recalled the day of kissing, and the first meeting on the stairs, hugging her smile, guide you step by step by a world he wanted to find out. He recalled his first dinner and that girl who sang "Something About You." He recalled how he took his hand on the table and she retired, recalled the walk to the pub where she began to tell that story now, ten years later, it had become his own story. And all things happen again, as every day, every time I read those letters read the same things different returning to happen differently, the same letters had different stories where she was and she always different. The innumerable.
and read while she said: "I do not get tough" and he broke his soul because he knew things easy and not worth reading again, as ever, the same paragraph and no longer put it, it said: "I know I want is easy if you're not afraid." And she was afraid to love, to that wish, and one night, at the joint, put his hands in his pockets wrap man who had the key, and kissed him for two new moons, and said apologetically: "I can not be faithful" and it in no time thought she was not talking about her husband, but his. And every word, every story moving again at a dance in which the eyes of any reader ended up mourn.
and read while she said: "I have a knot in my stomach" and went into the garden in the square and she said we finished and he had no words for the first time there was no word say or write and she went and from that day just to fuck and she remained cried, cried with tears quiet and desolate and shouted at the metro station: "What you want from me?" and he said: "I just wanted to love" and a few days ago the man who had the key been found in the subway, and life with her gray hair and his eyes dull, his gesture of bad days in which his lips were folded helpless as hiding from the world. And they have looked through the eyes of the letters upside down and all are silent and the man who had the key has realized that not one minute that she has lived thinking has paid off and felt so sorry for her felt so sorry for him, every single day who has not lived to reread those letters were her, he has not hesitated to run away with his soul and his leg amputated carbon to open the drawer and fulfill the daily ritual last time before burning him that local filthy inside, those filthy stories, those filthy writings that were written anew each time he read them, every time a new flame blackened as the woman had blackened his fucking life.
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