—Come on, husband, you have to come with me to the seamstress “The Big Breasts,” and stay in the car, in double file, if we can’t find a place to park.
I’ve already called her and she’s waiting for us.
About “The Big Breasts”: a friend of mine, Conde de Monterrey, who lives in the same building, had told me that these “Breasts” was a flash of a porn humor movie watching her hanging clothes on an airplane propeller outside of the kitchen window, putting both her boobs on the windowsill.
—I was already looking forward to meeting her.
We took the car, which my wife drives, and we headed to the Logroño Highway. We were lucky because we parked right in front of the building where “the Breasts” lives, at numbers 15 and 17.
The door of the building was open, and we entered by going up some stairs to the elevator; a new elevator, in which no more than two people can fit, going up tight like two canned sardines, to the fifth left.
“The Breasts” was already waiting for us, in her nightgown, at the door of her apartment, like whores do on dating floors. She looked like a left woman, lazy and busty, as you cannot imagine. She was like two big boobs pricked into two sticks, with a head like a cob with two little eyes, a nose and a mouth, and with a half-lower belly between her legs, two sticks of hers. Her arms were rather small, as if angry at each other.
—Come in and don’t panic. You will see a year old spun and sewn and a few bras to make.
She ushered us into the dining room right next to the front door.
My wife took two plus-size bras out of a bag at the “Día” Supermarket; he taught them, saying to her:
—I want you to lengthen them a little, two centimeters, put some new brackets and a couple of whales.
—Okay, I’ll do it for you in a jiffy.
“The Breasts” went to an old sewing machine, but in very good condition, brand “Singer,” and on it she began to fix the two bras.
I gossiped about the dining room, seeing that on one wall there was a painting with a picture of Dalí’s Christ, and in front of it, on the other wall, a flag of Spain with a black ribbon reminder of those who died from COVID-19.
My wife took a chair and sat in front of the TV on, watching and listening to the news of the day that was nothing more than bullshit about the coronavirus and its statistics of dead and alive. I grabbed a magazine from the magazine rack, sitting down in another chair, leaning on the dining room table to leaf through it.
It was a color magazine with dried sperm stains. “The Breasts” left the job and she turned to me, saying:
—That’s a motorcycle magazine that my son usually takes to the toilet; indicating with the hand the door of the service.
I leafed through it for a while. It was a motorcycle magazine with nude chicks posing in squares, streets and highways with them.
At one point, I was itching to go pee. I got up, and when I was going to the bathroom, I noticed that running down the hall, from one bedroom to another, a naked boy with his erect prick caught in his right hand behind a girl, also naked, who was beckoning him with a panties with the colors of the flag of Spain, inciting him as bullfighters do to the bull, yelling at him: hey, little bull!
When my urination was completely over, I went back to the dining room.
Next to my chair, “The Breasts’” husband had sat down and was looking very carefully at his cell phone.
—Hello, I said.
He looked up from his mobile, and told me:
—You know how young people are. They are cousin and cousin, and you already know the saying that “the cousin brings her cousin closer.” They run down the hall and go from one room to another because there is a guitar on each bed and they want to play the strings.
I smiled, nodding, and he went back to his cell phone.
Out of the corner of my left eye, I saw that he was seeing messages with naked girls rubbing their tits and cunts and that a green distemper fell, to him, of the nose.
While I thought that in this house there was a lot of fabric to fix, my wife told me:
—Come on, husband, we’re going; everything is already arranged.
And we left, of course.
Daniel de Culla is a writer, poet, painter and photographer. He’s a member of the Spanish Writers Association, Earthly Writers International Caucus, Poets of the World, (IA) International Authors, Surrealism Art, Friends of the Blake Society, and others. Daniel is the director of Gallo Tricolor Review and Robespierre Review. He participated in many festivals of poetry and theater in Madrid, Burgos, Berlin, Minden, Hannover, and Genève.
