I recognized that one mature and still beautiful woman immediately who further on left the fashionable store meters. They had passed how many? , forty years? , it had seen since it for the last time. But it was. More major, with enough kilos of more than had fully cleared the thin and adolescent body in which it had left it put. It was, with that indefinable certainty that they keep the memories.
Their forms had changed, without a doubt, but that one semblante unmistakable was the one of Mari Sea. Also they were his those liquid eyes of color emerald that had evoked in dreams so many times. And the arched ones of its legs, that had longed for with the lacerante pain of that never could caress them. Mari Sea Colindres. There, in Madrid. To two passages of distance. On the verge of crossing me as if he was another stranger more of many than they cross that one section of commerce of high level of the street Serrano. I doubted if to say to him to something during that one largusima scene that happened to the interminable rate of those cinematographic sequences rolled to slow motion.
In the end, just when was height, I was decided to question it. The voice left to me more unnatural, made high-pitched and vacillating than customary: Mari Sea? Mari Sea Colindres? The woman turned itself then. Evidently, it, Mari was Sea of those two summers in Zarautz, when in a remote non-recoverable past the playera locality still denominated Zarauz, other people’s to the political ups and downs that would happen after the death of Franc. She watched me to the woman of landmark in landmark, with rictus dumb and interrogative of ignorance, with the seriousness alarmed of the disagreement when boarded seeing itself by stranger.