Blotches Rash Stomach

story Sunday

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passes the large gate home. There two girls sitting on the stone bench next to a hydrangea. Walk slowly, the old, suffocating. Pauses. Look at the picture of blond curls, the old man. A mariamulata flies open. Which seems larger of the two girls up. Says something to the other, waves to the window nearest the door, jumping out. Which seems smaller man as he dedicates a song with a thin little voice. Raise your hand to the old hat: Good morning, he says. Still air. Hello, "she replies. What a beautiful day, is not it, and still the old walk.

In the next house, which resembles a buchinche beyond the bush that marks the end of the trail, another mariamulata is picking the remains of the cat and other girls talk about things with caution. The shock of its hair care call him. shortens step. Follows a path that leads to thinning the castle. Flanked by a low oak, hill, climb wearily. Raises his hand again, compliments to some site and removed his hat. Ventilate. Perlan minimum sweat their lips. Upload. Soon you should sit in the dust. Today is Sunday, thinks, and Sundays are for rest, is a sorry for not bringing the fan, well. Also think about the two girls with the braids and the two walls. Strange, never saw, never saw them before today. Tired, gets up and returns. A mariamulata crosses the road. Removed, get away from here, unclean bird. It perches on his shoulder the furious flapping bird. Why, gossips, which Sunday rarer. Back to see, girls brunette, this time hear screams inside the hut. A domestic dispute , no doubt. The hoarse voice of a woman burst in the heat. I like to approach, but his mansion is waiting for a table set especially because today you have guests.

already in the early morning, the service has dealt with his instructions, always so thoughtful, the same instructions that attends the service every Sunday morning when the gentleman is invited, like today. Getting back the Panama. I like to go into that house with buchinche air, even with these cries, the girls would think dirty, the woman who claims any kind of help. A pen mariamulata blurs your vision briefly. The trot is now bearable. Girls of the loops, kills dividing again. In the distance, the guests begin to arrive. He keeps wanting to enter the den, but today is Sunday, maybe if it's Monday or Wednesday ... He assaulted a breath of heat and you can hear, mingled with the clamor of women, the almost forgotten sound of a marimba gourds. Hell, he says, and throws to the top of his hat farther oak that is lost in the air. Not without some inkling relieved unbuttons vest and white shirt. The barefoot gurruño ago with his pants, starts to walk uphill again. There are three that follow mariamulatas squawking. Is removed, now with Ansion, clothes that fit and well, like a misplaced marimonda, running rocked the little girls kissing blondes. The girls fled in panic. Better. Look at the sky, blue, as it should be, whisper, and looking for a woman of enormous breasts, guess, and odors, there, where the marimba sings. Today is Sunday, shouting, today is a holiday.

[walk]