In the morning, when we were already at the dock in Cienaga, my grandfather stood shaving with his straight razor, the door open and the mirror hanging from the frame.
He has been busy with his SMs during his interview, which in the interviewer's aspect could connotate the sickness of the poser and the improbability of intercoursing with bona fides.
I didn't sleep that night. I kept checking the bolt on the door. The present seemed vulnerable to the past, as if it might be overwhelmed by it, as if I might blink, and when my eyes opened I would be fifteen.
Something is terrible about their relationship, job, or other situation, and they moan about it ceaselessly, but find some excuse to dismiss any solution that's proposed.