Butterflies — Memoir of amorous residues* (fragment)
She was fragile as a bird. The eyes moved nervously, as if looking for a way out. She breathed her fate of nymph, and tried to hide her terror in words of obvious obscenity. She wore cheap perfume. Her hair had improbable colors, and had become thick after so many layers of paint. As it was too many her everyday stories. But I always saw her as a little girl, and couldn’t decide whether to devour her, or to save her once and for all. But it was her who decided, when, scared as a bird, swallowed me.
(*) Translated from the Portuguese
