Rafa
Finding Malu in that state feels like a punch to the gut. She is a complete mess: unevenly cut hair, swollen face, puffy eyes and a considerable purple bruise on her cheek.
I take her to her room, which looks like it was struck by a tornado: clothes everywhere, a suitcase thrown in a corner, a pack of cigarettes on the nightstand. I take her to bed, help her wear a T-shirt from her closet, taking off the wet towel she was wrapped in. She lies down curled in a fetal position and I cover her with a comforter. While she rests, I pick up her stuff from the floor, hang the wet towel and sweep off the hair from the bathroom floor. When everything is finally organized, I take off my shoes and lie down next to her on the bed, holding her in my arms.
Beyond desire, Malu brings up tenderness
