Deshoras
The young woman enters, tracing the air with subtle gestures. She sits down on a
She sits down and crosses her legs, long as shadows.
“I’m about to close,” I tell him.
She smiles.
I glance at my watch. I sigh.
—What can I offer you?
She eagerly explores the shelves, unable to make up her mind.
“I’d like it all,” she flirts.
I think. I look for the bottle of brandy from Jerez, uncork it, and pour it.
He gazes at me for a few moments. He takes the glass and swirls it in his hand,
as if cradling a bird.
“My mother died when I was a child,” she says suddenly.
“I’m sorry,” I hesitate. “How old were you?”
—I wasn’t talking about myself. She died as a child.
Gently resting the glass on the bar, it fades before my
eyes.
Jorge Accame, from Buenos
Aires (Argentina).
