Original title: Las hojas muertas (from El secreto de la señora Higgins y otros cuentos)
By Javier Vizoso
The pale leaves of the unwritten novel blink behind the sweaty crystals of boiling tea of that fishbowl of dreams in which fable and life they are confused in rows of sentences from which they are glimpsed the drawing of a woman built of vacillations, experiences and poisons.
With November the girl is dying before that folder pregnant of interstices among those who are remote barking’s dogs. The interrupted coition of the fingers against the keys preludes the definitive drag of that fictitious life to the grave of the trash and the remote certainty of disappearing forever with her.
When opens the door of the room the collected silence announces a solitude of a sacred temple: The cup of tea. The empty chair. The blank of the page on the computer.
From de window you can see the spectacle of a crazy wind that drags the pales leaves playing with dogs in the mild agony of autumn.