I am alone, once again in the house of Mariherminia. There is a particular room that overlooks the valley of the river Chama where the vegetation creeps up to the door, like a nightmare of a flood except the plants and not the water are rising. Not far towards the Southwest, one of Mérida's three bridges, recently painted horrendous colors that make the 70"s seem modest, crosses the Valley. It is the place where, lazily spraying shaving cream out the window, I accidently drenched a motorcyclist speeding between lines of traffic. The cyclist slowed and wiped of the cream from the front of his shirt. Lea and Mariherminia, in the front, startled and asking why I was swearing and sparing with an invisible partner, thrusting my fists into thin air as if I were preparing for a boxing match. "Shit." I said, "I just sprayed a motorcyclist with shaving cream!" I continued pumping my fists as Lea laughed and Mariherminia seemed surprisingly calm considering at any moment a pair of thugish men would come tapping on the window with a hand gun or a tire iron. They did not come back to seek revenge, I imgaine because they could not have identified with any certaintly the car responsible. Little did they know, they need only find the person that had lowered himself in the back seat, half brought to tears, sparing with an invisible partner.
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