Natacha G. Mendoza
Lover of art and literature. He lives in the Canary Islands, where he finds inspiration to write.
Photograph by José Miguel Martín Ordoño
I'm tired of seeing the same faces. Every day, when I open this gate that separates my bar from the world, the same old people enter, without looking, at the same hours, with nothing new to say. This place has been transformed into a cursed temple of satiety. Prostitutes who end their day, unsuccessful writers who use the darkest corners as an office, even a priest, who by mistake of proximity comes to have coffee. It does not matter what I do, it does not matter if I do not turn on the lights, the place is a humid cave, full of troglodytes without any encouragement. To make matters worse today is Wednesday, it is gray, the bones, the wood, even the iron creeps. The single mother looks for another prey. Jacinto, the widower, returns for another liter of solitude. The stories are piled up under the tablecloths that I have not yet wanted to change. I let this den die, I've been committing suicide for years, but these idiots come back every day, in silence, they look at me shouting, they shake me with their shit, they insult me when they pay me. I'll wait, maybe tomorrow, someone, take the first step.