I shook him awake; I was breathless.
“There are ghosts, I can hear them,” I whispered so they couldn’t hear me.
“A dream,” he said, “a bad dream, calm down.”
No, I couldn’t. I really did hear that hand striking the wall opposite the bed. It beat out a rhythm, creating a sweet melody. Through half-open eyes I had seen a tall, black female figure.
Go to sleep, go to sleep, don’t be afraid. Go to sleep, go to sleep, don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid.
This morning the memory of the night has already passed, but a strange attraction leads me to long once more for the black darkness. I hear a weird echo, I sip the careless milk of my thoughts, my legs are naked and crossed, I look impatiently at my cigarettes, because seven hours without smoking is far too long.
The stench of the dirty dishes in the sink grows from day to day. This morning I decide to clean the house; I swear I’m going to do it. I’m serene, even if that echo sounds like a Tibetan chant that won’t leave me alone.
He says, “Come and see.”
With my lips open in a smile, I go look across the narrow corridor, and I think this morning I really do feel like making love. I think that when I go into the room I’ll throw him on the bed and fuck him without even looking at him. He’s just had a shower and he’s damp. I can already feel the skin of his feminine back brushing against my fingertips.
“Come and see,” he repeats.
I don’t go in. I stop in the doorway, with one leg against the wall and a smile that hints broadly at what I have in mind.
He doesn’t notice but points at the wall.
A black hand. Or, rather, not a hand — three fingers. Three black fingers imprinted on the wall, as though someone had set fire to his own skin and then pressed it against the plaster.
I just say, “I told you so,” and feel something clenching inside me, and someone tells me that I have to hide because no one knows how to listen to that echo.