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Writing

The dinner (#CuentosDeTerror)

19 June, 2019

There is no doubt that you showed off with the dishes, the spaghetti, the ribs. The impression I made is that of a fine, very elegant, gentleman. Eat the ribs without cutlery, without staining, in the least, my white tuxedo, giving up using my hands and smearing my entire face. No. The dirty, the wild, the barbarian, should see you later, in bed, at dawn. It is important that in the procession you are polite, fine. You should know that you are not only a man of pills and diagnoses, but a cult, Wagner appreciator, paintings, books. It is important. Where she comes from, they almost devour each other. To show myself like this would be to become one more. You should know that she, subtle lady, is unworthy of such environments. Ah! When I take her to Vienna, London ...

He will love you, he will love you. But he already loves you! It is obvious. The way your eyes ... nobody cheats. The way he says good morning, playing his hair. Perhaps it is true: his eyes, more opaque; and his hair is more gray, brittle. How changed I was when I picked it up! The expression he put on when I opened the coffin! And they all say that she is gone, she left us, she left, but they don't know how to see her, here she is still changed, but she. He is here, waiting for me in bed. After dinner I put on her favorite dress. Ah! She, my dessert.

They knock on the door. I just want to make love to you and I swear I'll return it. Only that. It is her husband. Surely he saw me when I left the cemetery. The smell is nothing discreet; He knows we are here. Go, kick the door, it's metal, and I nailed the windows with wood. He knows he is with me. This night will be mine. Scream, scream as much as you want. Jealousy burns, doesn't it, infamous?

English Version