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Mañana de Sábado
Página 1
Thousands
of
parallel
lives
touching
each
other
through
small
recurring
details.
Saturday
Morning.
'Arroz
con
leche.'
Maya
wakes
up.
Morning
light
comes
through
her
window
and
paints
a
picture
on
the
wall.
It
brings
her
a
little
packet
of
joy
every
morning.
She
looks
at
her
phone.
It's
7:23.
Notifications.
'Arroz
con
leche,'
again,
every
five
seconds,
a
perfect
rhythm.
She
only
hears
the
first
two
or
three
every
morning.
Her
ear
has
learned
to
drown
them
out.
Maya
says
hi
to
the
Arroz
con
leche
woman
every
time
they
pass
each
other
on
the
street,
though
she
has
never
bought
any.
Maya
makes
the
bed.
She
fluffs
the
pillows,
slapping
them
firm
against
her
legs.
She
straightens
the
top
sheet.
Perfection.
She
walks
to
the
other
end
of
her
studio
apartment.
Beside
the
sink,
there's
a
cutting
board
with
bits
of
avocado,
a
wooden
spoon,
a
knife,
and
half
a
lime,
squeezed
dry
—
whoops.
Even
a
tidy
person
isn't
tidy
all
the
time.
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
just
a
little
too
close
to
her
garage.
Again.
It
makes
it
just
a
bit
harder
to
pull
her
car
in.
She's
pretty
sure
the
guy
who
owns
it
lives
on
the
other
side
of
the
street.
Just
park
it
on
your
side.
Same
annoyance,
every
morning.
She's
thought
about
leaving
a
note.
She
hasn't.
She
probably
won't.
The
annoyance
moves
through
her
and
is
gone.
Deep
breath.
It's
Saturday.
The
light
is
still
painting
on
the
wall,
changing
a
little
with
every
minute
as
the
sun
climbs
higher.
The
packet
of
joy
returns.
She
drinks
her
coffee.
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Mañana de Sábado — B2 Inglés | Cuentana