Selected Cronicas

SUNDAY

Such perfume! It is Sunday morning. The terrace has been swept. So he switches on the radio. A late lunch gives one thoughts. He smiles, and gives those thoughts form. There is water on the table but no one is thirsty on a Sunday. And he begins sipping wine without much enthusiasm. At four o’clock they will hoist the flag on the pavilion. (But what he really fears are those tranquil Sunday evenings.)