The tingling starts around my ankles: a cold sting, an icy burn. The room has been cut off from the rest of the world; the candle's shadow dances frantically over my book as he approaches. The mist surrounds the legs of my rocking chair, tempting it like an adolescent virgin awakening to seduction. I feel it caressing me, working its way through my pants to savor its prey. It plays with the worn hairs on my calf, teasing my purple, swollen veins! He takes his time, flirting with his feathery tongue, emphasizing the tickling.
The grains of sand have stopped raining on the clock to become sporadic, sly drops. Outside, the coppery twilight begins to drown behind the mountains, swallowing along with it the memories of the last day. The boards of my cabin creak, the sparks from the fire emanating from the chimney seem to stabilize.
I hear no animals, but the lone howl in the yard from my faithful companion portends the worst.
My tired breathing is the only thing that disturbs the sudden quiet. Eyes narrow, my bony hand plucks the glasses from their balance on the bridge of my nose and rests them on the book.
I have not yet smoked my last pipe and the moment has come: fresh mahogany-scented tobacco brims from its prison but will never know the alchemy of fire.
His breath seems to haunt me, I feel his sulfur breath hit the back of my neck and send a shiver along my spine. There will be no time for farewells, toasts or congratulations; when the ice daggers reach my chest, I know it is too late.
Only the throbbing of my heart remains, that arrogant muscle he will rip from my thorax with his sickle. Its warm texture will freeze, and my soul will disappear in its smoke.
The last moments are not panic. I feel the relief of knowing I am possessed by the black cloak that envelops me. I do not see the past, I do not wallow in my life. I only think that, in a few moments, I will see her again, I will lose myself in her blackish eyes one more time and feel the perfume of her hair, I will enjoy the horizontal smile on her face and the vertical smile of her sex, I will be able to tell her how much I love her and how long the penance has been since she left.
I receive the darkness calmly, with this book I will never finish reading resting on my legs, with the rocking chair finally coming to a stop to the rhythm of the last grains of sand slipping, tic, tac, over the edges of the hourglass I'll never turn over.
(Published in Spanish as “La hora”, here).