You’ll get up without taking a glance at her, you’ll go to the bathroom slowly, take a coffee standing in the kitchen, you’ll go out wrapped up because TV says it’s two Celsius degrees and the price of that dollar you never saw went up. You’ll take the bus that’ll run late to the stop. You’ll punch the card in the factory clock, mechanically, and you’ll take a look at the timestamp without really seeing it. You’ll put on the work clothes; turn the machine on remembering, like every day, the Rusito‘s three fingers that laid on the floor when he tore them out with the seesaw; remembering his panic and his despair. You’ll look at the clock every ten minutes until five, not expecting anything. You’ll go out whispering “later” to the watchman. Tired, you’ll commute back home, just as it happens since fifteen years ago. You’ll get home and will almost be happy by realizing your wife has left you taking her kids.
Original title: Sonará el despertador a las cinco menos diez
Translation: Alex Jamieson
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