txema rodriguez
love resurrection
This is how it happens. It’s night and you’re walking home from the market with two plastic bags (bananas, corn flakes, Nutella, a box of vermicelli, a commercial pesto sauce and two types of bread—one for toasting and one to eat with the pasta). You’re thinking about that thing that happened at work and what you should have said, and rushing to get back to the apartment in time to watch Survivor, although tomorrow if anybody asks you’ll say you listened to music and read that new novel by the guy who just got arrested for drugs and carrying a concealed weapon. And then you hear heels clacking and the slapping of sandal against foot, and you look up.
And there’s this woman. And then she’s walked by you, and maybe she was wearing perfume but it’s not clear, and you’re not at all in love because you only saw her for a second and she’s not a real person, not in the sense that she’s somebody you could call up and say “Come have dinner” and serve her pasta from a box and pesto you bought in a plastic container. And you know—you just know—she’s not rushing home to watch Survivor.
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