Teleca could simply not stay in bed.
I’m sure she’s chatting away at the door. She leaned out of the balcony. The emptiness in the street hit her. She’s locked herself in the bathroom. She does it to provoke me.
“Lupe! Lupe! Lupeee!” Teleca shouted in anger.
She could not think of anything else. Her relationship with Lupe had become an obsession. Just then she heard the tapping of her old shoes in the kitchen. “Where were you, Lupe?”
“And what could you be doing there at this hour of the day?”
“Taking a shower.”
Her black hair, all wet and tangled, was dripping over her shoulders, her waist, her back, and her buttocks; such long hair, held back with a red comb; a bundle of hair, heavy, like a horse’s mane.
“You did tell me to wash myself often.”
“But not during working hours.”
As Lupe, still wet, confronted her, Teleca could see the red tree of resentment in her eyes.
“Bring me my breakfast.”
“That’s not the way to answer. Say, ‘Yes, ma’am.’”
“Say, ‘Yes, ma’am,’” Teleca almost shouted.
The woman remained silent, then decided to comply. “Yes, ma’am.”
Teleca walked out of the kitchen, slamming the door. Back in her bedroom she felt the need to walk around. She picked up one