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As túas balas » hands

Arquivo de tags

neve, 2

ForecastCando saín, oito horas máis tarde, do estadio de pista cuberta de glaspop, decateime de que xa non quedaba nada da mañá soleada e fresca coa que entrara, e si un serán frío, escuro e a nevar. Non tiña chuvasqueiro. Perdera as luvas esa mesma mañá na estación. Rebordei alegría ante a primeira nevarada da tempada e díxenlle a unha señora nun semáforo: É marabilloso, non si? E ela retrucou: Non, non o é. Pero eu xa me botara coa bici a rir e percorrer o par de millas urbanas ata a estación, coas folerpas a pousárenseme no xarsei, ata que a risa trocou en dor e a alegría en angustia: non sentía as mans, non podía frear a bici, podía pasar calquera cousa.
Obviamente non pasou, e horas despois esas mans desconxeladas estaban acariñando a pel de neve de Bádminton, ese mozote suorento que a primeira vez se correra en tres minutos e que desta a pesar dos meus esforzos de todo tipo, tardou dúas horas enteiras e marchou da casa como viñera. A neve sempre nos agasalla tesouros.