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Mañana de Sábado
Página 1
Thousands
of
lives,
side
by
side.
They
touch
through
small
things
that
happen
again
and
again.
Saturday
Morning.
'Arroz
con
leche.'
Maya
wakes
up.
Morning
light
comes
through
her
window.
It
paints
a
picture
on
the
wall.
It
brings
her
a
little
bit
of
joy
every
morning.
She
looks
at
her
phone.
It's
7:23.
Notifications.
'Arroz
con
leche,'
again.
Every
five
seconds.
Perfect
timing.
She
only
hears
the
first
two
or
three
every
morning.
Her
ear
has
learned
to
ignore
them.
Maya
says
hi
to
the
Arroz
con
leche
woman
every
time
they
pass
each
other.
But
she
has
never
bought
any.
Maya
makes
the
bed.
She
hits
the
pillows
hard
against
her
legs
to
make
them
soft.
She
makes
the
sheet
straight.
Perfection.
She
walks
to
the
other
end
of
her
small
apartment.
Next
to
the
sink,
there
is
a
cutting
board
with
pieces
of
avocado,
a
wooden
spoon,
a
knife,
and
half
a
lime,
empty
—
whoops.
Even
a
clean
person
can
make
a
mess.
She
makes
her
coffee.
She
takes
her
coffee
to
the
window.
The
street
is
busy.
She
notices
the
Vento
motorcycle
—
the
same
green
Vento,
parked
too
close
to
her
garage.
Now
it
is
harder
to
put
her
car
in
the
garage.
Again.
She's
pretty
sure
the
guy
who
owns
it
lives
on
the
other
side
of
the
street.
Just
park
it
on
your
side.
The
same
problem
every
morning.
Sometimes
she
thinks
about
leaving
a
note.
But
she
doesn't.
She
probably
won't.
The
irritation
moves
through
her
and
goes
away.
Deep
breath.
It's
Saturday.
The
light
is
still
painting
on
the
wall.
It
changes
a
little
every
minute,
as
the
sun
goes
up.
A
little
bit
of
joy,
again.
She
drinks
her
coffee.
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Mañana de Sábado — A2 Inglés | Cuentana