On leaving, I went to my appointment with Monica, the manicure of the gym who would frequently and with which had already had a few skirmishes particularly rewarding. That night I was clumsy to making love, even if Monica had not made any reproach. I soon abandoned his floor and I went to bed on my behalf to enter unwittingly in a world of dreams, ungrateful and menacing, turning in bed and I awaken bathed in sweat. Late in the morning, called me to the Office a colleague of the gym: don’t know the news? I guess that not, because otherwise I do not llamarias I answered, kind, with the bad taste night still on my palate. It’s Monica, the girl of the manicure, which has a beautiful ass, you know I got alert. What went you to? Monica? It have been found dead in his home, cutthroat.
It just me count Antonio, journalist. I hung on phone, unable to articulate Word. Dead? Monica? Why? A cold sweat started to walk me the backbone, moisten me rump. When did it happen? And, above all, who do such a barbarity? I went home. I bought a newspaper at the kiosk in the corner but still not had anything about the incident. The newsagent, a folksy type that sometimes exchanged jokes, I had watched with concern: something happens? I see no good face. I contemplated my face into a next showcase and watched my scrawny countenance. The worst thing was not that.
The worst thing was to see the face of my clone, over my shoulder, smiling cynically. I turned the, with less energy than usual, but I could not face me with the type that because immediately he dropped something on the floor and began to move away from there. I instinctively looked towards the sidewalk and saw a knife in it.