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J U A N C A R L O S O N E T T I Luckily the afternoon has turned less cold and at times the sun, through drizzle, lights up the streets and the walls; because at this hour they must be walking in Puerto Nuevo, near the ships or marking time from one dock to another, from the kiosk to the sandwich stand. Kirsten, corpulent, in low heels, a hat crushed down over her yellow hair; and he, Montes, short, bored and nervous, stealing glances at the woman's face, learning without knowing it the names of ships, following, distracted, the maneuvers with the ropes. I imagine him biting at his mustache while he weighs his desire to shove the woman's peasant body, fattened on the city and leisure, and make it fall into that strip of water between the wet stone and the black iron of the ship, where there is a boiling sound and the space one might keep afloat in narrows. I know they are there because Kirsten came today at noon to look for Montes at the office and I saw them leave, walking toward Retiro, and because she came with her
Manoa – University of Hawai'I Press
Published: Apr 1, 2002
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