Retrospectively.
The cigarettes spread out in the rocky decorations across the concrete. His hand gestures and lost gaze made him look anxious for the first time, despite his otherwise ever-present coolness and grace. For a moment, and certainly for the first time, I saw in his eyes a gleam of self-doubt. A bit of confusion. A sliver of anger.
Yet this moment was more about opposite observations. Who I was, perhaps, had eventually become more strange in his scope of understanding, wised by time and experience beyond mine. To me, this moment was already written out somewhere and the cloves just needed to burn a bit longer. I had not been surprised about anything for a long time. Certainly months, maybe years.
There had to be anger somewhere. He was too human to exist otherwise.
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Me dicen el Matador de los cien barrios porteños, No tengo de que tener miedo, Mis palabras son balas, balas de paz, balas de justicia, Soy la voz de los que hicieron callar sin razón, por el sólo hecho de pensar distinto.
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