Overwhelmed by the lack of money and her mother’s illness, Soledad gets a part-time job as a photographer in a brothel. Her sudden friendship with a Brazilian girl will lead her to learn that not all women return the same when they get lost in the darkness of the night.
Nº 01 | Short story | Horror | 5776 words | Dana Lima | Spanish version | Translated by Trinidad Montalva
I dreamt last night of a sign that read, “The end of love”
Florence and the machine
Dad, I had a dream. I woke up at 2:30 in the morning because of a noise coming from the dining room. At first, I thought it was Osvaldo making a mess, but his bark turned into a moan. So, I got alarmed and decided to get up. I looked at my feet; one had a slipper on and the other one was naked. When I got to the dining room, I saw it: a huge crocodile was eating the table, the same one you bought when Mom turned thirty-nine.
At one point in my life, I had four jobs. The first two were related to my profession as a photographer. The others varied depending on what came up; I wasn’t picky because they provided me with extra income. In any case, if I had to choose one, it would be the fourth one, because of its unexpectedness.
Hard times started when I graduated. My father had passed away in a work-related accident when I was sixteen. Back then, my life wasn’t much different from that of an ordinary teenager. It had its ups and downs. I developed an addiction to sweets. I secretly ate chocolate bars, gummy bears, candies, and stuffed cookies. My mother gave me a little more money to share them, but when my father died, my allowance was reduced until she finally stopped giving it to me. I needed my daily dose of sugar to feel happy, at least for a while. I would go to the school bathroom and sat on the toilet eating candy; from then on, the sweets never left me, nor did the habit of consuming them secretly. Especially since my mother’s diabetes had significantly deteriorated her health: her vision had been cut in half, and her kidneys weren’t responding as they had before. Eating in front of her seemed inappropriate and cruel; also, it increased my anxiety. So, I was left to be the breadwinner of the house. Three jobs at once: one in the morning, at a print newspaper; another in the afternoon, at an advertising agency; and a third one on weekends, at Starbucks. Any single person without children would have had more than enough, but I was burdened with the responsibility of rent, the expenses of two people, a dog, and fifty percent of the medication and dialysis costs. The other half was covered by the State.
If I could turn back time, I probably would have studied medicine, although I was never a big fan of chemistry or biology. I also wasn’t smart enough to make decisions that would ensure a good future for myself. In the midst of this vocational and financial crisis, came the fourth job. One of the few positive things that studying photography had brought me was meeting Mona, not only because she was a good friend, but also because she helped me with my income by giving me temp jobs, odd jobs I didn’t want to take due to «lack of time.» Jobs she turned down, and that coincided with my free time. Deep down, or maybe not so deep down, I knew that behind that rejection lay a genuine intention to help me. In return, I took care of her marijuana plants in my yard; and, when I could, I treated her to a nice night out. The jobs ranged from photo shoots for stores and businesses, modeling for social media, and the occasional pregnancy, baby, or family group portraits.
The week before Christmas, I was retouching some photos at the advertising agency when my phone rang. It was a text from Mona.
«Sole, babe, I have a job for good money. <3 <3 :-D»
Writing…
«Let’s see… :-O»
Recording…
«Do you remember fat Edi? My cousin Inés’s boyfriend? Well, it turns out he had a side gig taking pictures of some nightclub escorts who work at a house near San Martín Park. And my cousin found out. You see, my cousin is very old-fashioned, so you can imagine the mess that poor fatso got into. The thing is, she offered me the job. I thought of you, maybe the money would come in handy; they pay six thousand per session.»
Writing…
«How many sessions do I have to do? Where do I have to go? When? Is it serious? To tell you the truth, those places scare me a little… there’s always news about the horrible things they do to the women.»
Writing…
«No, don’t worry. The fatso wouldn’t be so stupid to send me something that would put me at risk, he knows my dad would cut off his balls. Let me get all the info and I’ll let you know.»
I popped some lemon gummies while I waited for the answer. Sugar helped me stay awake. I was sleepy, and it was only Wednesday. I wiped the white spots off my mouse and continued moving the cursor over a middle-aged couple whose weight I needed to lose and whose skin texture I needed to improve. Good money, echoed in my head.
Writing…
«He says it’s usually once or twice a month, sometimes three, depending… And that it’s safe. If you want, he says you two can meet up and he’ll explain.»
I put down my phone and looked out the window. A group of people were rapidly crossing the street, to avoid being scorched by the sun.
«Okay. Tell him we can get together and I’ll see. :-O»
Writing…
«I’ll tell him. :)»
Edi was waiting for me at the station where we had agreed to meet. I spotted him by his fluorescent orange Naruto cap, which could be seen from a kilometer away. Unaware of my approach, he was wiping his sweat with his forearm and sipping a Coke. We walked to a small café in a posh area with trees, clean streets, and no stray dogs. Inside, we ordered iced coffee and two slices of carrot cake. He insisted on inviting me, and I didn’t play hard to get because, as always, I was short on cash.
I’d known Edi for a few years. The first time we met was at a party Mona took us to. We ended up very drunk, and I peed on the sidewalk outside a Methodist church. Although he found the anecdote funny, I was still embarrassed. I told him I was calmer now and that I wasn’t going to put up with his teasing like I used to, but time didn’t pass him by: he lived with the same intensity he’d had when he was eighteen, even though he was about to get married. Without wasting much time, I got straight to the point and asked about the job. They pay in cash, right away. You can make a little extra money. As he talked, I began to visualize how dangerous it could be: a trap, a way to lure girls into trafficking. I remembered those stories I’d heard on the news or seen on news websites, about women who traveled from the countryside to the capital with the promise of work that ended up in forced prostitution. Straight up, I told him I was afraid I was dealing with something shady. He burst out laughing. Still thinking about the danger, I calculated that in one session I could earn half of the monthly salary I received at Starbucks. I don’t know if it was exhaustion, or that I saw the hope of quitting that shitty job once and for all, that I finally not only said yes, but also burst into tears at the table. Edi looked at me, perplexed, and then handed me a paper napkin.
I have a recurring dream: I’m being chased by a tornado while I’m driving or biking. In the last one I remember, I was in a bookstore and the tornado appeared without warning. I didn’t manage to escape. I was caught in the vortex, spinning around and around for a long time, while houses were ripped from their foundations and turned into thin air. I read online that this dream could mean either a warning or that I’m horny; the second theory is Freud’s. These days, I’ve been thinking about reading every now and then to exercise my brain. I’ve seriously thought about reading some poetry, but I keep putting it off because it bores me. I’d rather watch a movie where poetry is read. I remember Patch Adams; we watched it on VHS. I’m so old! Do you remember the Gativideo intro that VHS’s had? Do you remember we saw Animal Cemetery hiding from mom?
I opened the gate and rode my bike into the garden. From the window, I saw flickering lights coming from the television in the living room. They’d left a notice about a power outage. My stomach sank when I read the surcharge. I folded the paper and put it in my backpack. My mother’s sleeping figure was reflected on the wall like a dark stain. Her beautiful withered profile turned as she heard the door close behind me. Osvaldo appeared from the darkness of the kitchen, wagging his tail. I scratched the top of his head, and he licked my hand. Did you eat anything? Mom asked. Yes. I kissed her on the cheek and then, in one swift motion, helped her up and took her to bed. When she touched the mattress, her body slumped. I took off her slippers and pulled the sheets up to her ears. She stroked my arm and smiled as her eyes closed. Thank you, darling, she said, and drifted off into sleep. It’s okay, Mom. Her breathing deepened. She seemed to leave this plane and be confined to that space where only those who ache live, between suffering and delirium. The dog climbed onto the bed and settled like a donut at her feet. I turned off the light.
A few days passed. The heat began to empty the city, especially the streets. People fled to the coast or the south, and I was alert and waiting for the call. One night, while I was dozing off with a book on my lap, I received a call that suddenly woke me up. The book fell on the ground. I looked at the screen. I didn’t have that number saved. A woman spoke on the other end of the line.
—Hello, Soledad? This is Leonor, Edi’s friend from the photo shoot.
—Hello —I said, yawning—. How are you?
—Fine, thanks. I’m calling because we’re going to need you.
The fear I had initially felt began to grow. I tried to focus on the electric bill as a strategy to ward it off.
—When do you need the photos?
—This week —she replied.
—I can come on Friday.
I saved the number. If all went well, I could pay the electricity bill, replace the rear tire on my bike, and buy a new bra. If things went wrong, I wouldn’t be getting home. The risk was high, but I didn’t have many alternatives.
I reached the corner of a colonial building. The phone map marked its red dot. In front of me stood a dark wooden door with antique hardware. I looked at that three-story house between two buildings; it looked like something out of a Gothic movie, but without the gargoyles. I knocked twice.
«I’m here. This is the address and number of the woman who contacted me. I brought pepper spray just in case.»
Writing…
«Okay, babe, I already threatened the fatso that if anything happens to you, I’ll kill him. Do you want me to wait for you outside? I mean, just in case, so you can feel better.»
«No, thanks honey. I’ll call you when I get out. :)»
A tall, gigantic man opened the door. He looked Caribbean. He had a tattoo on his neck. A tarantula. Without saying a word, he gestured for me to come in. I started to sweat from the nerves. We climbed some stairs, and came to a hallway that led to a white door. I walked and looked around, testing the waters. The windows were covered with curtains. If things got ugly, I had no chance of knocking the man down and getting to the door. The only way out was to jump out the window. At most, I might break an ankle or an arm. I reached into my pocket and squeezed the spray bottle tightly. We entered the lobby, where there was a reception desk marked Casa Chantal. A woman wearing a zebra-print dress appeared from a corridor. It was Leonor. The signs of age couldn’t disguise her beauty. She looked foreign, but her accent was local. She winked at me and asked me to follow her while she talked on the phone. Come, let me introduce you to Michelle. Michelle, pronounced «Misheli,» was waiting for us on the third floor. A place quite different from the reception desk. A world apart with large mirrors and red lamps that created a hypnotic, almost movie-like atmosphere. Then, I saw her, looking out the window. She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. Prettier than the ones on TV. Prettier than the women I used to photograph in home-sale ads. A tall, mixed-race woman with long red hair. When she saw us, she smiled and spoke in Portuguese. ¿Teno que tirar a roupa?» Leonor put her phone away and said, No, no, silly. The young woman looked me in the eyes, and I felt embarrassed, intimidated, or something along those lines.
—Sole, meet Michelle —Leonor said.
—Can I see Edi’s photos? I’d like to keep the continuity of the work he did with you.
—Don’t worry, darling. I want to see yours. I’m looking for a change. I have some ideas. – And she showed me a black and white image she had on her phone. It was a photograph of Monica Belucci lying on a sofa. Monica glowing with all her body’s splendor in the dim light.
—I’ll set up the lights.
The woman nodded and showed me where the power outlets were. I opened my bag, took out some cables, and a small square of chocolate I had hidden in one of the pockets. I put it on my mouth and let it melt while I assembled the set. The taste slowly calmed me down.
I haven’t dreamed with you in a while. Mom says she dreams about you sometimes, especially when she’s sad or at Christmas. Also, when she goes to the processions because she’s wearing the rosary you gave her. She says the Virgin sends you in her dreams to comfort her. It’s all very mystical, really. It’s strange that I remember you younger, with the same face you had at thirty. Of your last days, I only remember your mustache and how it shaped your face. The thick mustache of a soap opera heartthrob. The mustache of a father combing his hair in front of the mirror while his daughter watches. Then come your eyes, your eyebrows, and everything that follows.
My photography services began to be more requested after Leonor’s birthday, when she decided to set up a photo booth at the party. I hadn’t intended to become a social event photographer; I’d shied away from that, but the pay was good, and I liked the girls who worked at Casa Chantal. I felt comfortable being with them. After the photo booth, came children’s birthdays, baptisms, and pictures for some of the girls’ private businesses. I was also hired for Michelle’s wedding. That was the wedding gift from her colleagues. It was held on a Sunday at noon. An intimate party, with no more than twenty-five people eating barbecue by the pool. I arrived early, installed my lights and got ready to photograph both the space and the people in group photos, individual photos, on the steps, smiling, surrounding the bride and groom, photos with flowers and poorly arranged lapels. After the ceremony, they immediately moved on to lunch, and then came the dancing: Leonor snorted coke on a handheld mirror while squeezing a twenty-something guy who was staring at her breasts. Some were dancing reggaeton in a group while sipping decorated cocktails, others were in the pool playing with flamingo and unicorn floats. An elderly man slept leaning on the table while his wife fanned herself and sipped champagne. I looked for Michelle and her husband to take a picture of them cutting the cake. I found her vacuuming at the souvenir table while her husband was kissing another woman near some privet bushes. They didn’t even manage to knock over the bridal bouquet. Someone hit the groom, and one by one they all got involved in a brawl that I had to back away from, but which I captured with my camera. In the middle of the mess, I heard filia da putaaaa and saw Michelle fighting with the woman who had been flirting with her husband five minutes earlier. An avalanche of drunk people tried to separate those who were hitting each other, screams mixing with the reggaeton, a man was pushed toward the cake table, which wobbled and crashed onto the floor. The venue owners arrived, and then, the police. As I packed my things to leave the chaos, Michelle approached me with a bloody nose. I took a napkin from the table and helped her staunch the blood. I’ll get some ice, I told her. She was hyperventilating from the drugs and the nerves, crying. The rest of the guests regained their composure, except for her husband, who was arrested for pushing a police officer.
—I want to go —she said.
—Do you want me to walk you home?
—Não my house. I want to go somewhere quiet.
I felt sorry for everything I was witnessing, especially for her. Another police officer asked if we were okay. Yes, yes, Michelle replied. Let’s go to the bathroom and wash your face, I told her as we walked away from the muddle. She took my hand and kicked an inflatable unicorn that was in our path. The unicorn fell headfirst into the pool. She washed her face, and we left the event center. We walked a couple of blocks in silence. I looked at her. I put out my camera and took a picture. She noticed and posed with the napkin in her hand, her makeup smeared, and a red stain on her nostril.
—Where do you want to go? —I asked her.
—And you?
—Home, but I can accompany you for a while, as a wedding gift —I joked.
She began to giggle nonstop. Then she took a few deep breaths to calm her laughter and wiped away some tears.
—My wedding é un yisastre… Can I come to your house?
—Yes, of course. —I handed her a piece of candy I had in my pocket.
We walked a few more blocks looking for a way back to the city until we came across a taxi.
My mother was watching TV when she saw us come in. She said hello and then turned to face us, looking perplexed. I’ll tell you later, I said. Michelle came over and kissed her on each cheek. I offered her some tea, but she said she wanted water. Osvaldo appeared, his tail wagging like a propeller, and sniffed at both of us. My mother hissed; her face was that of someone demanding an explanation; I just smiled, hoping she wouldn’t say anything else.
—I’m going to leave my bag in the room —I told my mother and Michelle followed me.
When we entered, she scanned the bedroom, looking closely at every photo, at every note stuck on the Styrofoam wall. She picked up a book from the nightstand. In an almost imperceptible gesture, she began to read it in a whisper.
—toothed roses, velvet taran tulas, red mouths of hell: they are the vampire women, who have returned from crimi, death and oblivion, like karma, like remorse they have returned, thirsty, thirsty for blood and revenge.
She looked at me, bewildered. She read it again in a low voice, frowning, trying to understand it.
—No é about love.
—No, it’s not about love. It’s about horror and revenge.
—I like love poems. —She smiled with disappointment and closed the book—. Do you want to take another photo for my wedding?
I nodded, and she stood near the window. With her hands, she grabbed her hair and moved it to the side. I pointed the camera at the bare skin of her neck. The light revealed a bruise that had been hidden by her hair and makeup. I lowered the camera, and she gestured for me to keep shooting. Against the light, I could see her freckles hidden by foundation and compact powder, false eyelashes, and pink lipstick. Even though I tried to focus, I couldn’t stop thinking about the bruise around her neck.
—Does it hurt? —I asked cautiously.
—Sometimes.
I guessed the identity of its author. I touched her arm with my hand in a reflexive act of comfort, as a way of saying, wordlessly, how sorry I was. She understood and told me, ista bien, it’s not your fault. Then she placed her hand on mine. I could feel her breath on my face. Her long body, bending like a reed towards me. Rocking, closer and closer. She’s going to kiss me, I thought, and froze. I’d never kissed a woman before. My hands started to sweat. I had the urge to do it, but she was drugged and intoxicated. I felt scared. What if I was imagining something it wasn’t there and kissed her? I couldn’t handle the embarrassment. However, she kept looking into my eyes. My phone rang with a message, I let go of her hand and walked away, even though my whole body was throbbing. Michelle smiled sadly. Nervously, I started talking without thinking much.
—I took some nice photos. I’ll give them to you on a flash drive after I’ve edited them a bit. I’ll choose the best ones. Many from the beginning. I took a few at the end. I don’t know if you’ll want those, but if you’re up for it, I can include them. —I stopped talking. I saw she wasn’t listening. She was looking out the window. It was already nighttime.
—I have to go, Soledad. —She hugged me and leaned on my shoulder for a few seconds.
—Wait. —I broke free from her embrace and went to my backpack to get the pepper spray. – This is in case someone wants to do that thing you have on your neck again. You just throw it in their eyes and run away.
She looked at the metal tube, tucked it into the neckline of her dress, and hugged me again.
I walked her to the bus stop and gave her money for the fare. We said goodbye. I started walking home. Hey, vampire woman, she yelled. I turned to look at her, and she waved goodbye.
I finally dreamed of you. We were eating Milanese sandwiches on the pier. Veal Milanese, lettuce, and Hellman’s. Off to the side, there was an alley that led to the Córdoba alfajores factory we visited that time we went to Carlos Paz. You worked there; you didn’t tell me, but I knew. Why is it that in dreams we know things that haven’t been said, but not in real life? Where does that capacity for interpretation lie? Then, you went to work. I spent the whole afternoon waiting for you, and then I jumped into another dream where I lived in a cathedral that had apartments upstairs. I lived with Señorita Bimbo and a Swedish woman.
The stifling summer heat had taken over the city. There weren’t many people wandering the streets. Only those returning from work, a few runners, and a few people walking their pets. I had to get back home to help my mother with her evening bath. I stopped by a kiosk and bought some eucalyptus gummies. Over time, I had come to understand that filial love was incompatible with freedom. I took the chain off the wheel and walked home, carrying my bike beside me, to enjoy the sunset. The phone rang. It was Leonor.
—Hi, Sole, how are you? —She paused—. Look, I’m calling because Michelle hasn’t come home. I’m calling everyone who knows her to see if they know anything.
—No, hon. Last time I saw her was at her wedding. Did something happen?
—I don’t know, yesterday they found her wallet with all her documents. We went to the police, but they didn’t care. I’m worried.
My stomach tightened, and I stopped chewing the gummy bear I had in my mouth.
—How can I help you? Count on me.
—Do you have any wedding photos you can give me? We want to make some posters and put them up around town. I need a good-quality, up-to-date photo.
—Yes, I’ll go home now, find some, and bring them to you. I’ve printed out the ones I was going to put in the wedding album.
—Okay.
I thought about the last time I’d seen Michelle.
I got home in fifteen minutes. My mother was sitting on the couch watching a soap opera when I opened the door. When she saw me, she smiled and asked for a glass of water.
—I have to go out for a while. I need to bring some photos and I’ll come back to help you. —I handed her the glass.
—Okay, darling.
As I searched for the photos on my desk, I remembered the ones I’d taken in my room. The image of the bruises returned. I put the camera and memory card in my backpack. I got on my bike and rode as fast as I could. Along the way, streetlights began to turn on as darkness fell. The air turned humid and thick. A gust hit my face. It’s going to rain, I thought as I crossed a park. When I reached Casa Chantal, it began to rain. I knocked on the door a couple of times until Leonor opened it, wearing a bathrobe and holding a Virginia Slim. She looked different; her makeup-free face revealed dark circles under her eyes from a late night and fatigue. She let me in. We went to her office, where she opened the window and lit another cigarette. On the table were traces of white powder and a discount card she’d used to snip cocaine. I searched my backpack for the printed photos and handed them to her. She looked at them silently with a gloomy expression.
—Michelle hasn’t come to work in five days. Yesterday they found her wallet near the train tracks, and her husband called me, worried.
—Leonor, I want to show you something. —I took the camera out of my backpack and searched for the photo—. Look. —She took the camera—. I think her husband hit her.
—Where did you take these photos?
—On the wedding day. After the brawl, she didn’t want to be alone or go home. So we went to mine, and I saw those bruises. I’m showing you because I’m afraid he might have done something to her.
—We’ve had a couple of disagreements in the last few weeks because she came to work with bruises. —She handed the camera back to me—. That asshole of a husband hit her, but just enough to avoid scarring her. He knew she couldn’t work here with bruises. Michelle was up to something shadier, so I told her to be careful. —She put out her cigarette—. Thanks for the photos, Sole. —She closed the window and fixed her hair—. I’m going to change. We open in a bit.
Leonor walked me to the door. I stood on the sidewalk, choked with a pile of questions. What kind of shady business was she involved in? Unfortunately, my mind was slower than my tongue. I stood there for a few moments, looking around, hoping something would occur to me. Then I grabbed my phone and texted her.
“Where are you, Michelle? What did they do to you?»
The message was sent, but she never read it.
For weeks, we went to the police. We insisted, relentlessly, bringing information we thought might be relevant for locating her: names to question, the place where she was last seen, a phone number her colleagues had found in her changing room. A number that, by the way, ceased to exist a week after her disappearance. It was all in vain; we encountered a wall of inefficiency and disinterest, mainly because the missing woman was a prostitute. To reassure us, they explained their theory: Michelle had returned to Brazil, even though she didn’t have the necessary documentation to leave the country.
With the girls from Casa Chantal, we put up posters all over the city: Have you seen Michelle Madeira? We also posted her photo on social media. Sometimes they responded, giving information that led to nothing. Many theories. Rumors about men with power and money paying fortunes to fulfill chilling sexual desires, clandestine parties where drugs and human trafficking were rife. That she’d been kidnapped to be used as a mule, that the narcos had killed her over a score with her husband, there was even talk of organ sales. Theories that went nowhere, only increasing our anguish. Months passed, and little by little I stopped going to Casa Chantal. Some time later, I learned that it had been closed due to a municipal licensing issue.
Autum arrived, and brought with it new changes that rearranged my life. My mother’s health improved, and I found a better-paying job. Once again, Mona’s guiding hand had brought me good luck. It was a vacant position at a bird reserve, a job that involved photographing species as a surveillance activity. One day I was called in for an interview, then another, and finally, I was selected. The same Friday I found out the reserve position was mine, I quit my previous jobs and returned home with the surprise. When I told my mother, she cried with joy. We celebrated with Coke zero and grilled steaks. Then we watched TV for a while and went to sleep.
Someone caressed my ankles. I woke up, startled. Through the darkness, with my vision blurred by drowsiness, I made out the figure of a person sitting at the foot of the bed. I turned on the nightlight and saw a red hair. It was Michelle. I was so shocked I couldn’t utter a word. For a few moments, I glimpsed a ray of light through the window behind her, a beam that took a few seconds to crackle. The crash frightened me a thousand times more than the appearance of Michelle, whom I longed to see, even if it was just one last time.
—Ei vampire woman. —She pursed her lips, forming a pale smile.
—Michelle, where were you? H… how did you get in?
I leaned closer to her face, and there was the same purplish stain on her neck.
—It’s a dream —I murmured, getting out of bed to look at her more closely.
She stood up with me. Her long hair brushed against my arm and tickled me.
—I came to bring you this. —She took my hand and put the small pepper spray. I touched her hand to make sure it was real. She closed my fist and wrapped her hands around it.
—Michelle, we’ve been looking for you everywhere. What happened to you?
—I don’t remember, at some point I fell into a dream, without light, without sounds. Nothing yi nada. Then I heard your name, Soledad, whispering… and I woke up. I can’t leave until I give this back to you.
Sadness overcame me as I looked at the spray in my hand and the paleness of her face, her bruised skin. I suddenly realized that this wasn’t a dream. It was real. That this was what death looked like, and I felt sad knowing that the body in front of me would never again feel the warmth of touch or see the light of the sun. I wanted to ask her a thousand questions, but I kept them to myself. I decided to just say goodbye. So I leaned closer and saw behind her lips something that shone like a gleaming pearl, a tip of ivory, a small fang peeking out of its whiteness. I hugged her tightly, and the curtain flapped, caressing our shoulders. When I opened my eyes, Michelle stroked my cheek and kissed me. The fang grazed my lower lip, and I could taste blood. She licked her lips and then walked over to the door.
—Hey, Michelle —I called her—, don’t go yet.
Michelle flashed a smile and disappeared behind the door. I dropped the spray can I was holding and ran after her. Suddenly, I was standing in the middle of the street, barefoot, disheveled, blinded by the darkness. In shock. I walked to the nearest corner, vaguely hoping to find her, knowing, deep down, that it wasn’t going to happen. A stray dog appeared, wagging its tail. It looked at me timidly, or perhaps fearfully. I saw its bright eyes stare at my hand as it reached out to scratch its head. It crouched down in a gesture of submission. It’s okay, it’s okay, I’m not going to do anything to you. He licked my fingers, which still felt the indelible coldness of Michelle’s hand. It was time to go back. I looked up at the sky, and a huge bolt of lightning flashed over the city, illuminating everything.
I dreamed of the sea. This sea looked like the one in Villa Gesell, but the water was clearer and greener, a beautiful green, the kind jade has. In the dream, I was floating under a cloudy sky. I was slowly drifting away with the waves, until I lost sight of the beach and the buoys. I reached a point where I could only see water and a boat with giant lights. A kind of floating lighthouse. Suddenly, the boat disappeared. Then I saw you. I saw you in a wave; it was you, but with the face of a red woman. Then I sank into the foam.
.