The salt.
He went out to get salt. Not always the sweet life is the best life. You get bored of sweet. Salt makes you feel alive. He went out to buy salt.
He left the house with lights on. The light on top of the table. The search is always the same: bring salt home, the seasoning of a laugh, funny even to the glass of water, but the thirst is always blind/strabismic.
He crossed corners, crossed fingers, he had no idea. The salt was in fact his absence, was the cold feeling of being alone, the salt was just until the corner, was just enough to miss a little bit. And she missed. Because she missed, she seasoned the plans for the future with tense and exciting fasting. She had some salty visions, wet hands, she saw him under the light at the table.
Hungry. She waited. Somewhat she waited a little more, waited a little more, waited a little more, waited a bit longer, he didn’t come. The dosage of time was too much and the seasoning went bad. She wrote on the refrigerator “run out of salt”. And left out to buy some sweet/candy, but the search is always love.
By Luciana Elaiuy, for Piauí magazine.
http://pastadaluciana.blogspot.com/
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O Sal.
Saiu pra comprar sal. Nem sempre a doce vida é a melhor vida. Doce enjoa. O sal dá sede. Sal deixa a gente vivo. Ele saiu pra comprar sal.
Deixou a casa acesa. A luz em cima da mesa. A busca é sempre a mesma: levar o sal pra casa, tempero de uma risada, graça at´o copo d’água, mas a sede é sempre vesga.
Ele cruzou esquinas, cruzou os dedos, mal sabia. O sal era a ausência que ele deixava quando saía, era o frio de estar sozinho, o sal era só até a esquina, era ele sentir falta um pouquinho. E ela sentiu. Por isso temperou os planos pro futuro com têmporas tensas e empolgadas. Visões um tanto salgadas, mão molhada, ele sob a luz daquela mesa.
Esfomeada. Esperou. Mais um tanto de espera, mais um tanto de espera, mais um tanto de espera, ele não voltou. Pesou demais a mão no tempo e o tempero dessalgou. Ela escreveu na geladeira “o sal acabou”. E saiu para comprar um doce, mas a busca é sempre amor.
Por Luciana Elaiuy, na revista Piauí.
http://pastadaluciana.blogspot.com/
