Every morning Amparo watches Servilia hang at the end of their rope. Their goal is the sea: to hold it — the land and all its bodies — together. 


They meet at four in the morning, the hour when no one feels good, except maybe the ants, when the water is not yet broken, sliced by party boats, full of people having fun. 


The rope twists, the body turns, Servilia speaks:


“You will fall out of favor with more people than you will care to remember, but only some will feel like injuries.” 


Amparo takes notes from bed.


“You know,” says Servilia. “Maybe it’s always the woman’s fault because no one ever asks the woman? While I think of it: Remember to ask the woman. Write that down.” 


The legs jerk, the torso spasms, the body enters its final twists.


“Tell me,” the body shivers. “Are fear and desire one and the same? Have you figured that out?” 


Amparo thinks. 

Servilia rattles. 

"Not there, yet?"

Amparo stares. 


The body croaks and defecates.


Amparo shrieks.


Servilia laughs.


“Come, let me down from here. Haven’t we enough tall tales? You must know by now: Some waves surge and do not break.”