She
uses to drink litres of milk straight out from the bottle at her aunt’s every
Wednesday, and she doesn’t care if her hair gets wet. Each afternoon she seats
in the same bench of the main square of the town, and while she is absorbed by
all those worries that I ignore, she moves her foot instinctively, simulating
the drums of some song that people always try to decipher when they walk in
front of her. There’s not a day that goes by in which Mustela doesn’t wear her eye
shadow spreaded all over her temples and under-eye circles. Maybe it’s from
crying. Or maybe she likes it that way.
Who
doesn’t like Mustela’s reluctant and fugitive look covered with matte Black? We
all just want to know what is inside. But her pale skin and Black clothes hide
what she is made of. She’s thin and tall, she can be a model. Every blinking is
showing and hiding at the same time what she is thinking of.
At
school she doesn’t pay attention to the class, but her exams can’t be rated
less than exceptional. She always seats in the end of the class, in the last
writing desk, and she takes out recycled sheets of paper. And with her black
broad tip, she draws.
She
never shows her drawings; she doesn’t want the world to have that privilege.
She hates reality. She hates humans. She hates them so much that she’s not part
of them anymore. And indeed, she’s not anymore.
Does
someone know her voice? I somehow doubt it. She never says a word, and they
never ask her something, as they already expect this mute mouth that just bites
its lips time-to-time. We know that she expects nothing from life, so
absolutely nothing deceives her. And her smile? It hides and occasionally goes
out into the open, when she’s thinking about the nap she will take after lunch.
And
it’s difficult to fall in love with someone you just see in the distance, like
a livid and divine being that takes her eyes for a walk in the people’s shoes
and judge them by the laces.
