...De Cartón Piedra

It was Gloria dressed in tulle with a distant blue look, smiling in a shop window with a small, maroon mouth, and fake patent leather shoes that sparkled when touched by the sun. Clean and pretty. He was always in fashion. Dressed up like a wedding. And I went to see her at all hours because I loved that cardboard woman, who from San Esteban to Christmas, between sales and news, made my sidewalk more tender. It wasn't like those April dolls that scratched me from the front and profile. They ate my orange in wedges. That they ripped my illusion away. With the alacrity that rent gives, he forgets the air he breathed yesterday. Play the cards that the moment gives you: TOMORROW is just an adverb of time. No no. She was waiting in her showcase to see me turn that corner... Like a bride, like a little bird, asking me: "free me, free me... and let's run away to write the story." I hit the glass with a stone and ran, ran, ran with her to my front door. Her whole body trembled in my arms. The March moon smiled on us. In the rain we danced a waltz, one, two, three, one, two, three... it didn't matter. And I talked to her about our future, and she cried in silence... I SWEAR.
And between four walls and a ceiling, grief after grief burst against his chest. I had the universe in my hands and we made the past a lost verse within a poem. And then, they arrived. They pushed me out of my house and locked me between these four white walls, where my friends come to see me from month to month..., two by two..., and from six to seven...