An Old Mexican Lady

An old mexican lady made a few things apparent to Albinus a week before her death at the high back-end rickety part of the home, in dark – apart from a dim yellow glow of a stained bulb in a shadeless lamp. She labored to breath and as he sat listening on a monitor from the downstairs sofa, she would interrupt her slow wheezing pace with an abrupt gasp that would startle Albinus into thinking the lady was dead. She would resume. Albinus would think about nights resting beside a young mexican lady and the soothing passing breath they shared in spite of the rude behavior each had been a part of, throwing rocks at glass. They laid as shards, their skin yellowing in the stains on the bed, breathing agonal gasps, soothing one another. Albinus stepped up the steep stairwell to watch the old mexican lady sleep in her sweat and uncontrolled continence. He breathed in every smell of every woman he ever loved.


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