Twists and turns that set things straight. Theories that slowly run their course. Edifices left half finished. Margins of error when making a decision. What’s incomplete versus what’s finished, when finishing is a cruel detour. What conscience dictates: certitude or a ruse …
Demetrio fell asleep perplexed, he woke up perplexed, and Zulema knew it. In fact, she had the tact not to push harder on the subject at hand. She knew that her opinion had sounded a bit too decisive, more like a verdict. It was he who subconsciously repeated, after waking up, the words that for better or for worse had bored into his spirit: You could be a drunk, a murderer, a thief, and even a deadbeat and a grouch, she’ll stay with you no matter what. To memorize this concept of salvation: a yearlong task; a reductive duty, with thousands of reverberations. At that moment he had said: Thank you, Auntie, for your advice. Next: each to his or her own: she to the store of her devotion and he to embark on the dreary trip back. Here we must mention that Zulema did not offer him breakfast (insensitive hostess), though she did place her aged hand near his mouth:
“Kiss it!”
“Why?”
“Do it! It’ll make you feel good.”
“I don’t see the point …”
“Come on! Don’t be a fool. I know Renata didn’t let you hold her hand.”
“But you are not Renata.”
“Pretend I am. Take my hand and kiss it.”
Without knowing what he would get in return, Demetrio obeyed. He became a bemused kisser of wrinkled skin. Wrinkles that inspire tenderness. A warm sensation so similar to … and after continuing to kiss it slowly the depraved suitor stuck out his tongue and licked it lustily. It seemed like an obscenity, but then — ah yes! to lick and lick and lick the pith, so much saddened saliva, and in such high concentrations. The kiss lasted a whole minute. It could have been longer, but Zulema pulled her hand away and said: