TE17 Mysterious Montenegro

Rodrigo Fresán

she not wake up before he leaves, because the truth is that she talks nonstop and what she has to tell is not on a level with what Scheherazade told.

There he is now.

In bed.

Inside it.

But knowing where he is and how he got there and what his own name is. Alone. And he can’t even pretend to sleep, because he has already forgotten what it was like to be able to pretend to sleep.

His definitive bed.

His noble, end-of-the-road model bed.

The bed that he imagines now in the bed, a waking dream, trying to silence the attack of the past playing at futurism, but an antiquated futurism, a steampunk futurism. The bed—like the planet where that bed lies down to go to bed—that has been modified with the passing of the pillows and mattresses. The bed that began being meteoric in the late-decadent Des Esseintes style on Sunday morning after an agitated Saturday night.

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