Miguel waits quietly in the street, the rain slowly increases the intensity and the air warms a bit, you need a coffee and slowly, almost hesitant, is aimed at a small venue. With his cap, rain cover and a clever drop another finds refuge in his back between the shoulder blades: it makes him curse and get tense, the latter forgets.
hot coffee and smokes, her hands wet wrap the Styrofoam cup and drink it slow as not to burn, throw furtive glances at the street. Between the headlights and the shadows of people debate an incessant dance of colors and reflections, the busy road test new ways, changing its depth, width and length. Clear that this show is not for Miguel more than a set of lights, as he - very lethargic the last few days - only a certain figure expected to cross that street.
The rain hits the ground with greater force, tin roofs impose their candombe wet, and people are running seeking shelter. In it, Miguel recalls several stories where rain fade reality: in his mind through images Venus adventurers, seeking the sun domes, Bradbury, or what he saw Isabel at home with the child in her womb, in García Márquez's Macondo, the same way he spent his ideas as the heads those Central American monsoons, where so much rain fell at sunrise and no fish left to remember the huge hole in Guatemala. Wrote a few lines in his notebook and he finished the coffee that I had found something that more or less liked.
Finally he decided to leave the business and return to pick up the wet street, watching the fans run and be with your hands wet, and before turning the corner to reach a last look at the street where I expected. "It is not" - is convinced - "will not tonight."
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