fire in the body

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Growing plants from the north on the shores of the Mediterranean is playing God when you can’t even keep up with Father Mundina

When the heat comes, the boys fall in love and the hydrangeas die. The one we had in the yard didn’t last summer; the one they gave us in march won’t hold this one either. In fact, it has already detected the rise in temperature: it begins to fade, it becomes sad. Growing plants from the north on the shores of the Mediterranean is playing God when you can’t even keep up with Father Mundina.

No matter how well I take care of it, I know that the hydrangea will eventually die, just like I know the air conditioning will break. The same thing that happens every year around this time will happen: choke, we’ll turn it on, we’ll hear a buzz, and we’ll stay alert, waiting for a jet of cold air to come out. And it doesn’t work out. You see: the air conditioning, which spends the winter touching its filters, will not work when it is time. Man, it’s your job.

In anticipation of disaster, I call the mechanic. Look at the device, turn it on. To work. Turn it off, turn it back on. It works again. Look at the machine, the command. “Everything is fine, ma’am.” “But it’s going to break,” I insist. He looks at me with the same disbelief I look at the card readers with, he pisses me off for not fixing something that isn’t broken and leaves me sick and at the mercy of a prophecy that will soon be fulfilled.

Another summer I’ll spend the days and nights with my skin on fire, a soaked shirt and wet thighs, but not like Kathleen Turner in ‘Fire in the body’, attractive and seductive, but like a hake fillet cooking en papillote: the personification of anti-lust. With the heat life, things, heads are heated; everything catches fire Me too. Though one is already more ashes than flesh.

Source: La Verdad

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