Today is the last Saturday of the month and I'm at the hairdressers in the morning. Maria spends her fingers with water and soap for my crazy head. I hope. What do I expect? Looking to keep parted lips, a touch to remove the foam of the ear, a kiss on each eyelid closed ... But Mary is no me, never answers.
Meanwhile, a girl reading a magazine. The Doorbell Rang. She gets up to open and I hear her say: this salon is only for men. Then look to Mary and smile. The girl with no water and no soap in his eyes. I pushed against her friend. Violence. How embroiled see them kiss. How to bite. See them destroyed.
But instead, what I see is how my fingers are falling gradually. Under my sleeve stumps poke sparse, like my bald head. How can I cherish now to Mary or his girlfriend or any woman in the world? Hide my stumps in his pocket, looked at the floor and see how their narrow ankles are directed towards the end of the salon.
then returns. Pass me and not look at me. Better, I think, and does not notice my lack of hands. I also notice that your feet fall, little by little, that I can not touch her in any way. It addresses the girl again and I hope I can only sleep and dream of Mary with her head inside the dryer. Noise centrifugal us and makes us one thing crazy dream that turns in his swivel chair, while outside on the street, some pedestrians look into the salon through the window without noticing the pictures of models or fasteners. Note, in any event, are turning the chair, but do not understand.
And that's when I begin to imagine. No longer touch but the madness of my imagination kneading her waist, falling waterfall soft and tender meat I imagine. Butter Mary, Mary licked with tongues of my memory, which devoured them with ice cream and lollipops in preschool. And stop being old, while I climb the mountains of her hips .
Talk from when I was six. I'm sitting in the kitchen with my mother offered me a cup of chocolate. The chocolate is hot but bitter. - Take it! - Bittersweet voice whispers to me as a hand up. But do not take it. He looks away and goes to his room. They spend a thousand years. From the open door of her bedroom look like lava slides red satin china for its left bank. Curly clouds moving over his face and fall, fall, fall. On the nightstand is a scythe .
Scissors heavy, unwieldy, so different from the graceful, elegant Mary earwigs that open and close in the air like a dancer's legs. "Chis!", "Chis!", Jumping, moving, touching my hair, agile and sleepers. "Chis!, Chis!, To get you going." Let me do whatever comes. I feel a shiver his touch. Also rubbing his arm, arm warm chocolate mixed with vanilla. How could sour?
Mary's voice suddenly returned me to the barber chair. His fingers flying across the hair I have made travel between flavors and memories, far away. She looks at me waiting for me to pay up and that's all what you want the old man. I rub my chin I fake distress. Do I shave? Mary snorts and goes back to get the bib, aerates the cream smell around me while I lather, and is to lay the knife on the leather when I look without meeting, his eyes lost in thought, to arrive finally at the time desired, in which the metal is cold for the first time my throat.
desire to die if that beheaded the rictus of pain relief that now I guess on his lips, longing eyes that exude from the mirror, I dig into the swivel chair. It is a dignified way to return a tiny portion of juventur elixir that gives me his reverie. Mary female cream, chocolate and butter in a world of men, perennial football pundits and bulls.
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