It’s the usual scene – family, close friends, and distant relatives are packed into a tiny salon. Their black mourning clothes make them indistinguishable from each other. It’s hot.
The tension is extreme. It breaks when the body is carried in. Now comes the theatrics, the crying, the weeping, even fainting. Breath, sighs, sweat, and tears add to the humidity. It’s unbearable. Seated on the sofa, kneading a soaked, wrinkled handkerchief, I can hardly hide my loathing. I want them to go. I wish they would sweat blood rather than salt water.
Gradually the dark figures leave, taking their moans with them. Only a few of his closest friends remain. Attempting to comfort me, they offer me coffee. I shake my head. With disturbed and quizzical looks, they, too, finally depart, leaving me alone, fulfilling my wish which would have shocked them…had they known.
I have long imagined him like this – transparent, bluish. I see the grimace of rictus on his face. It chills me to my bones. His eyes fly open in a bloodshot flash. I feel hot. In a moment, he’ll be inside me, taking my breath away, leaving me to pant.
by Carmen Simón (translated by Toshiya Kamei)
