Written by Luis López Galán
Thumb in the air—up, in the name of the Father, down, in the name of Son—and her
breath between two ribs. Inhale. Exhale everything out: a hurricane through the mouth.
But nothing—what a disaster—there is no relief.
Outside, her feet with a life of their own, running and running. Up and down. Here we
go again. Another sleepless night—how many in total?—and now look at her, begging.
If they had told her months ago…their car, gone. Electricity, gone. And the bar? Yes,
gone.
A loud knock at Carmen’s. Two. Knock knock. Three. Knock knock knock. They must
be eating, having lunch, like a normal family—God, God, I’m so ashamed—but she
plucks up the courage and keeps on knocking, what else can she do?
The storm in her eyes. Carmen at the door. Her forehead, full of wrinkles.
—Carmen, love…
—Don’t tell me: they have shut the bar, of course. Like everything else.
—Locked up tight. What can I do? They’re going to take everything from me…
Silence for a moment.
—Come in, woman, take whatever you need. Oh! And I will say one thing.
Enormous eyes. Trembling lips.
—Keep your chin up; there’s something they won’t take from us, no matter what.
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Luis López Galán is a writer based in London. He is currently pursuing a degree in Philosophy and regularly reads manuscripts for various editorial projects. Originally from Spain, he typically writes in Spanish and re-writes his work in English. His contributions can be found in the blog of the American Philosophical Association (APA), Filosofía en la red or Travel National Geographic. You can find him on Twitter and Instagram at @llopezgalan