mornings like all
Mornings at the seminar were all the same, quiet and monotonous. It was just the seminary, the dark wooden table, the priests and boys. Among the boys, Escobar. They shared the bread. Smile, in the little holy supper for two. All the same mornings, all the same.
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"Sim, você me estimará, sempre. Represento para você todos os pecados que nunca teve coragem de cometer." — Oscar Wilde Belsy,...
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Roque faz um paralelo entre Capitu e Porcina e percebe que elas compartilham muito mais que olhos de cigana oblíqua e dissimulada
It was Saturday morning, and Bentinho, sleepy and lying on the floor, Escobar lying beside him and going back and forth between being awake and sleeping, didn't want to go home. Of course, he should go; he knew his mother was waiting for him. But he didn't want to: to be there, sprawled on the floor with Escobar, the morning sunlight gently bathing them both.
It was as if there were roots in her lungs, taking her flesh, using her blood for nourishment, its long stalk down her throat, finally blooming in her mouth. The metallic taste of blood on his tongue was unpleasant as he picked up the yellow carnations he'd vomited on the grass in the seminary garden. It was a distraction to have to go back to his empty room, where he knew his heart would break even more. Hanahaki disease AU.
The scene was simple: Escobar in the church, waiting, watching Bentinho.
It was just another rainy afternoon at the seminary, and Bentinho was almost asleep.