She has four years and a blue dress, her hair is brown and tied back in a braid decomposed, eye color blends to lose with that dress. I gave the pens to make her feel good that now I do not want to play.
She took thirty-six my markers and drew a little man. In doing so has made the genocide of the tips accompanied by shrill sound of the marker on the sheet that succumbs under the pressure of a stretch is too intense. The little man has a long body and a long oval head and large. He has green eyes without pupils, with only three fingers and hands. He smiles in a nose too big. He has small feet and arms and tapered mileage: is a stick.
She has the hands of thirty-six of thirty-six colors colors el'omino is wounded and thirty-six colors, with their tops mangled, lying on my desk. Some roll down to the floor, as if to tell everyone that now are really unnecessary, So will the end.
"We need to clean your hands, baby."
I take a cotton ball, soaked it with water. His skin white skin back to baby.
He gives me the little man, the stick . "For you"-he says-and as she does blushes. Then he goes on.
She has four years, I twenty-seven: we have nothing in common except the fact that we believe that men are sticks and that the mess go away with water.
Silvia. May 8, 2010.
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