Maldita Resaca

In a desperate attempt to fall asleep again, she counts the freckles dancing on his back. His skin smells like man and yesterday´s smoke, the beat of the previous night still thudding between his ears. She smells of him, her fingers of intoxicated cigarettes.

Every morning after the night before, almost without fail, she wakes up at 9 am and is unable to go back to sleep. She counts the number of drinks she consumed - not too many but, as usual, enough to keep her from having her much looked forward to Saturday morning lie-in.

She insists on staying next to him under the covers for what seems like hours, then gives up and goes out onto their little balcony to up to fill her lungs with the torrential rain that has not stopped since destroying their collection of herbs the previous afternoon.

The neighbourhood wakes up and stretches its limbs. Construction workers start their sporadic, lazy drilling. Unhappy little people are dragged by their grouchy mothers to look for unhappy little boots for the rainy season. The trees want to lie down and curl into a ball, drenched and tired by the continuous downpour of rain.

He wakes up and sees her on the balcony, a blurry naked figure hunched over a forest of droopy pot plants.

"Good morning," he says.