I started to feel immediately well when the biker’s head hit the pavement. The noise of the radio smothered the sound of the helmet going over the floor, crossing two lanes; in my mind it was like the crack of a whip or a reptile eggshell hatching, providing me instant relief.

I didn’t know him. I don’t even think we had ever run into each other. Yet, his trouser’s slightly raised right leg, his ill-coloured sweatshirt, the white hairs in his beard, his obnoxious backpack, his carefree gestures… there was something about him that made me know he was the one paying off. There was nothing about him that would keep me from doing it.

A trigger is all a gun needs to be fired and tension had been building up, cooking like mother’s recipes, a million little nothings and a huge one put side by side: no reason at all is as good as no particular reason. The biker had been cramming the traffic with his distinct pedalling in the bottleneck past the river, as guilty of the situation as any other of the furious latecomers in their sweaty suits around me, but I fixed my eyes on him with a Darwinian nod.

The dying of the headlights, a dimly lit slope, a bus passing by, the bumpers gently caressing his rear wheel and it was all done. No remorse, no regrets, no bad feelings, no sympathy, not even a rush of adrenaline, just the comfort in numbness and the alchemy of turning past worries into future ailments.

Número de familiares en el extranjero: 1. No sleep for the Just.



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