bread and tuna.
I did not want to be male. Perhaps no man, but male. In those days to do, dust, and dignity of chores I did not have a place that was mine.
In all those rows of campaign, blacks in the points marking the umpteenth teens face young, forever young in the yellow earth at midday, I do not c'avevo.
Nothing to do anything alone.
law of things, the law honest. The women had prepared the tools, prepared lunch in the dust is called breakfast, men also prepared to honor the hard work and effort.
To them it was time to go.
Wait.
She looks forward to nature. Nine months, twenty years, those five minutes that make the difference between surrender and capitulate.
I should go too.
slip in the gap between an event and another, stomach in and open mouth.
"I remain"
"Where?"
"here"
'here?! What to do? "
'working'
" you? "
" I "
" peserai thirty kilos! "
" weigh as Maximus, but he do it alone, "
'leave if he wants to be ... but you have to work "
fifty bags emptied almost half. Thirty sweet chili on average. For each trip. Sweet. The life that I won, stolen, if needed, which I expected although it was not me. At least on paper.
Jute sawed the meat, even under clothes, rough and old such as fatigue.
was my mark, was the sign. I held and cuddled for days: reliable and steady on his left shoulder like a pirate's parrot that I viziavo of attention.
'BREAKFAST! "
Even for me.
Among the rows of leaves gasping to put the wind was in a hurry, and we ate standing up, hanging with each other.
bread and tuna is the last supper. Betray the pact.
And I have betrayed.
