Crow Blue

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The year began in July. The place was strange. Sweat trickled down inside me, beneath my skin — I sweated and my body stayed dry. It was as if the air was hard, solid, made of stone. I drank glass after glass of water until my belly was bloated and heavy but it was always the same, the dry sweat and the hard air and the sun with a stinger in every ray. There was no breeze, no breath of fresh air slipping through the openings in my blouse, ruffling the hem of my skirt or rustling my hair with the promise of salvation.

On the other hand, I never saw cockroaches.

The American cockroach: Periplaneta americana. I once read that they had the ability to regenerate, depending on the severity of the injury. I knew them intimately, personally, as well as by reputation (the only creatures capable of surviving a nuclear holocaust, etc.), from surprise encounters in the kitchen and the hall leading to the service elevator. In Copacabana they were everywhere. But I didn’t see any cockroaches in Colorado. It was possible that they were there, and managed to withstand the constant lack of moisture and the harsh winters. But if so they were much more discreet.

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