16
Mar
2014

Thinking

It sits down the table, insurance the esferogrfica penxs and with the irregular letter it tries to write, however, it does not obtain, it is not concentrated, the thought is fixed to the lived scenes. – You go supper what, Samuel? The clear, pretty voice inquired and it, there to the table, reading, answered: – He makes what it will be more practical, a same soup. Then the chair was crawled on the impulse of the arm and of the leg affected by the illness and it did not adentrava in the small kitchen. With difficulty it lit the stove and became to speak: – Samuel gives to the casserole. He rose himself, taking care of it.

– What you want more? – Nothing, pra can come back its book. The scenes. It there in the terrace, looking the narrow street, ladeirada. The tristonho brown face, but, resigned to the patient state. It if arriving, demonstrating themselves solidary, human: – Thinking where, Ftima? Smiling, it as always, searched to tranquilize it: – Nothing not. But seeing the street. Silence between both. Somebody crossing the street, complimenting them: – Good afternoon.

– Good afternoon. The voice of it in reply. Imprisoned it to the proper mutismo, thoughtful. I contend myself in what it understood. – You needing money? Again the solidarity of the fellowship. – It can take off of my saving. – Not, for the time being, not. My God until when the souvenirs? Until when I will live the past? Why not me adapto to the solitude? Already was not enough the spill made unusable that it, then, why now took it to Mr.? The tears fall. With the back of the hands, it dries them, hasty. The penxs leaves to fall in the table and, in an impulse moving away with the coasts the chair stops backwards and of surprise resoluto, rising itself, closes the door to the side, the dumping waggon and, in the neighboring room, also the other dumping waggon, the door, crosses the terrace, portozinho and gains the street, descends it.

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