Pasajera/ Passenger

Dos días a la semana, a las 12:30 subo al mismo colectivo y me encuentro con esas dos manos móviles y rosadas, rubicundas, vibrantes y neuróticas. Poco puedo decir sobre cómo es el rostro que viaja con esas manos pues siempre está cubierto de una maraña enrulada, extensa y castaña, en ese gesto de mirar oculto el devenir que producen esas manos.

Cuando subo, ellas ya se hallan allí, y mientras pago el boleto, ellas no modifican su actividad, indiferentes ante mi presencia.

Hasta hace poco, esas manos de mujer rechoncha se enredaban entre los vericuetos de un hilado del color del oro inca. Conjeturo oficios posibles para esas manos crispadas, partiendo de la obviedad...

Tanto las he mirado ya, que esas manos se han colado hasta en mis sueños. Sin embargo, esa ignota mujer a quien pertenecen sigue pareciéndome insignificante. Mientras tanto el tejido crece, una sustancia de puntadas que prolifera en ese regazo que ignora al resto del pasaje. En esos mediodías, por un momento, mi pupila no puede abandonar el embeleso e indefectiblemente un ligero vuelco del corazón acompaña mi regreso a la realidad en torno a mí... maldita sea, otra vez casi me paso de parada.

Two days a week, at 12:30, I catch the same bus and meet those two hands, mobile and pink, ruddy, vibrant and neurotic hands. Little can I say about the face that travels along with those hands, as it always hides behind a long, curly and brown tangled hair, in a gesture of watching from the hide that what is to come, produced by her hands.

When I take the bus, they are already there and while I pay the ticket they don't modify their activity, indifferent to my presence.

Until not so long ago, those plump woman's hands were entangled in the winding path of a yarn that had the color of inca gold. I conjecture possible occupations for those tensed hands, starting from the most obvious one...

For so long I've stared at them, that they slipped into my dreams. However, that unknown woman remains meaningless to me. Meanwhile, the fabric grows, a stitched substance that proliferates on that lap that ignores the rest of the passengers. Every time, in the midday, jus for a moment I can't escape the fascination and unfailingly my heart jumps as I return to reality around me... damn it, again I almost missed my stop.