I carry my broken tooth. With it (or without it, depending on how you see it) I have lived the incidents of the last few days as the protagonist of the story by Pedro Emilio Coll, absorbed, sticking my tongue in the perplexed gap that I was left with.
It was a trivial accident, not even the product of a heroic act to defend a good-looking girl besieged by the virulent spores of Covid-19, nor intruding a gang of needy guys without masks, entertained in the bom bom of a corona party .
No. I simply pulled a tequeñón while standing in line waiting for my turn to refill gas, and suddenly it was swimming in an uncomfortable mess of a bite that luckily I didn't swallow.
With my broken tooth - repairing it is possible from 100 greens onwards - I have witnessed the advance of the Brazilian variant, the rise of the dollar, the remastering of the quarantine, etc.
I must confess, and this may sound absurd, I like my broken tooth, which shows, according to the most sensible opinions, only when I smile. Then I never smile and, thus, I feel that I acquire a malevolent air that brings me closer to the phenotype of one of my favorite poets, such as Víctor Bueno who reigns with his beacon of light and his crack in the oral cavity from the heights of Las Clavellinas , in Guarenas. And just like the character of Coll, every time they ask me my opinion about what we are experiencing, I immerse myself in the sepulchral silence of the wise, while with my tongue I judge the hole.
It is true, as in the story, that you don't think about anything while you play at recomposing the shape of the tooth in your mouth. It is true, as Coll narrates, that my occasional interlocutors seem restless, possibly fascinated by the depth of my mute musings when they enumerate the universal desnalgue: the vaccine, do they put it or they don't put it? Like a hundred in a bunch in Puerto la Cruz, the Petro does not change anyone, accept that the Holy Week Bonus has already fallen into quarantine, and so on.
When I want to mention the mother to a politician, rejoice with the official announcements, alarm me while everything around me shakes, I hold, with great difficulty, the broken tooth, which as if by magic returns me to an inner peace that they already wanted the highest practitioners of kundalini yoga seeking nirvana.
This morning my dentist shook me with a message by wasap: there seems to be a cheap solution to the issue of my broken tooth, which would bring with it the possibility of returning my pearly smile.
At this point, the mask hides everything and my girlfriend swore to me that the hole in my mouth seems sexy to her and she even goes and sticks the dagger of her happy tongue, I don't know if I really want that artificial intruder shining with his fake paleness from my lips.
I like the pod like this: on the side of the road like Fito Páez, slowly, snapping as more bio-safe measures are announced and the winery increases the cheese again, looking sybarite in my snobbish silence while all life It tastes like shit to me, playing with the existential emptiness in my face.