Читать книгу All Love Letters Are Ridiculous - Diego Maenza, Diego Maenza - Страница 5

Abelard looks up at the sky. Smiling, satisfied, as he hasn't been for days, as he hasn't been for weeks. The clouds crowd in a hazy gray, foreboding. His nervous and excited legs lead him down the sidewalk, but his mind is imagining the imminent encounter with Eloisa, the love of his life. Under his right armpit he has the manuscript, squeezing it as if protecting it in advance from the coming storm. He feels the breeze brush his face, ruffle his thick hair, caress his cheekbones. Abelard looks down at the ground. Look at the trash that vibrates with the wind. His feet go down to the road, carefree, like his dreamy instinct, like his restless eyes that go astray again in the shapes of the cloudscape. That is why he does not notice the car that crosses the avenue quickly, that is why he does not listen to the last and useless moment the desperate horn of the imprudent driver. The metal of the vehicle impacts Abelard's body. Her skin rustles, her flesh lacerates, its bones are destroyed, its beaten anatomy is ejected several meters in the same direction that the breeze carries. Certain splashes of his blood are confused, mixed, integrated, with the vermilion hood of the car. The boy's head hits the pavement and causes trauma. The rain begins to fall, very delicately. The most carefree pedestrian, whose inquisitive nature of the human being will be more focused on verifying the circumstantial details than on directing his attention to the center of the incident (perhaps with the intention of materially taking advantage of the tragic situation), will be the only person who will notice the four words that head the manuscript that has ended up near a sewer, those four words that are already beginning to dissolve throughout the page due to the insipient drizzle, and that constitute the title of the work that yearns to publish the badly wounded young Abelard: Theory of affects.