[The woman of the colored mice]
The sky is placid, nice white clouds that don’t move on the sky, no signs of danger. It would have been nice to have a little of light rain, to wet the sand, make it solid. The carriage has been raising clouds of yellow dust all morning, lapping on the sides and through the windows, all the shoes making a grinding noise any time they relocate and press against the boards.
Just a little of rain, that scent of possibility, of regained momentum, of closing the eyes and breath all the senses in and out, especially at dusk, or at night while lying by a window and looking over the park and into the bay.
But there is no rain in those clean clouds, those cut-out shapes that seem to have been pinned on the sky just to be contemplated.
With each jolt of the carriage, the other passengers find an excuse to glance at each other, a second or two of looking for reassurance, I guess. There is the youngster embracing his books. There is the fat, middle-aged man, most likely a businessman, with a bowler hat, a yellow bowtie with black dots, yellowish stains on his black jacket. There is an old woman dressed in simple black clothes, all her body covered except for her hands and her face any time her laced veil is lifted by a sudden gust entering through the open windows. She is crying without shaking or grimacing, passively, like she’s not even noticing the flow of tears. I’m next to this old lady, mostly looking through the window on my side, but anytime I turn to look through the other window I’m drawn to her grey curls that must be fake and the tears drying on the plain fabric over her chest.
It’s quite annoying the youngster peeping at me. He has been eyeballing my legs and breasts from the beginning. Not too subtle, but the most bothering part is his stupid smile, his sense of superiority. One can tell how full of himself he is just by how he keeps adjusting his worn-out tie.
The horses start to complain and the carriage slows down. There are two nasty whipping noises, the horses scream in disapproval but we start going again. That youngster sticks his head out of the window, then looks at me and, while smiling, tells me that he can see Suicidio, we’ll be inside Suicidio in less than five minutes, he proclaims. Then he pops his head out of the window again, like a dog excited to be out after hours of home confinement.