Maria Leónidas Rocha
The morning light creeps in. She pulls open the beaded curtains and confirms her ever-the-same, day-to-day life has been reinstated. 6am, she had already buttoned up her impeccably ironed jacket, combed her shoulder-length, abruptly cut hair. To any other, every visible detail announced the norm. Only the red plastered walls of that recondite cafe knew of the night’s diversions. Impregnated with tales of pain and pleasure, she couldn’t possibly recount when the morning came. 6am, the beer that inebriated her the night before is replaced on its rack, and the day goes by impossibly slowly.