NUDED IN RED

                                                        Reality invents me.
                                                              Jorge Guillén

• Excuse me Dylan.
• Just that.
  I had a feeling the old man was going to speak his mind. Maybe that's what death was, closing your eyes and being still. But it was more, a void in the minds, two dates and a portrait.
  You know, there are things that go inside the body, hidden, there where the machete and prejudices are pinned.
  Death was necessary. At least that's what he said years later, so useless, with dry and yellow hands, disheveled hair and the incessant chewing of homemade tobacco.
  He could kill, without wringing his white guayabera, the guilt; then, in the silence of the night, the echo of his voice faded, slowly, among the guanábanas.
  A man can be rotten inside and people go on with their miserable lives without understanding him, without understanding the reality invented for a few or that this man with his heavy walk, in another time was a full-fledged Gonzalez, a death of less and his little wife also something else, the belly growing quietly, but the son would not be his, but of a poor tobacco twister, who two years before comes to look at that brunette with wide hips, the devil entered through his nose and his own death and hers as something inevitable.
  I tell him, death and misfortune come together as one and when the machete sinks into the flesh, the minute gets longer and longer, until the sound of the metal on the bones and the surprised face of the dead man, wanting to swallow all the air at once, with his hands up in the air with no time to defend himself.
  You can love a woman for a long time, the shadows of the guanábanas darkened the old man's blue eyes and the words came to light for the first time, rather frightened, as if they thought they would stay in his stomach forever. Until one day when you can't anymore and the other - the lover - has to disappear.
  He must have understood that he was going to do it, it was a matter of waiting.
  On those occasions when the old man kept thinking it was necessarily someone else, and when he killed his wife, I swear it could not be him.
  He was asleep with the decomposed corpse, the irresistible stench, and the dream, then he lay on the pile of earth, there in the center of the paddock, between the dirty cross and the orchids, until fever and delirium.
  Then the death of the lover, with the black orbits, eaten away by the auras, the sex bleeding, out in the open and the horse grazing peacefully under the radiant sun and the body asking to be buried.
  No one misses a poor tobacco twister and a poor woman in this world. The old man was not one of those who liked to talk more than necessary, he believed that the machete convinces intruders and that what happened that way was written.
  I don't know why he put a noose around his neck and his eyes were thrown out and his face experienced a strange splendor, even in the box, a laughter perhaps of fear towards all that he had left, for me, who hated him with an exhausting force.
  Forgive me, God knows I'm lying, but look at this picture, I had to kill him. My eyes were not blue like his.

@wakeupkitty
@adeljose, @aneukpineung78

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