The sun went down, and the Martian light spheres dimmed. Dasan slowly descended the sand dune and went to Sylvie's house. Sylvie lay hunched over like an orphan, folding her arms around her head on the muddy floor. Half-knitted web and yarn lay beside her. Is she sleeping? Not sure if she is awake. Maybe crying? Dasan sat cross-legged on the porch with his hands on the doorstep.
Sylvie raised her eyelids. Her eyes widened. The face was swollen. Dasan stumbled over whether or not to warn Ruben now. Sylvie fitted the lamp and placed it in the middle of the house, took the net and thread in her hand and sat by the lamp. She stretched her legs, wrapped her thumb around the end of the web, and began to twist, holding the other end in her hand.
"Where is Ata?" Dasan asked. "Go out" she murmured. "Sylvie! "His voice softened. He called. Sylvie's face was not erect. Her big eyelids rose below her sharp eyebrows. Two glowing black flames stared at him." He spoke. Sylvie's face was pale. Her fingers were trembling. She could not weave the web. She lifted her face and looked at him. She screamed in anger. She rolled up the net and the thread and threw it into Dasan's nostrils. She got up and went to a corner. She curled up and covered her face. He walked across the houses, across the sand dunes to the east, and into the city's cemetery.
Had turned towards the sea and some of the arrogant teenagers were hunting They took off their shirts and jumped into the sea. Beyond the waves, anchored in the depths, they swam competitively watching Michael's motorboat sway like a mother bird.
It was at the festival that day at Michael's house that his partner Rosario arrived with his family in his own car. He wore a blonde silk scarf that Ruben had bought exclusively for Michael to wear that day, and a miniature look in a light blue foreign snowman. He rubbed his head with cold oil and curled his hair back. The head, unaccustomed to the comb, was tangled in an irregularity. Since there was no room in the small house, the guests were seated in the whip grove west of Mickel's house. Three yellow cane chairs lay there. Rosario leaned over one. He was inhaling the fragrant smoke of high-quality cigarettes. Ruben was sitting in another chair in front of him. He was wearing a blood red shirt.
