Mercoledì, 24 Marzo, 2004 | Posted by Jesus Miguel Luis Rodriguez at 07:56

I pull out a wad of toilet paper from my pocket and blow my nose hard.

Q: "How do you make a tissue dance?"
A: "You blow a little boogie into it."

It's cold outside and I'm nursing a running nose. If I was in a better mood, I would have made some crack about having to chase after it. But not tonight.

My feet wade through watery pools. They splash unhappily on my way to buy tissues. A lady sees me use the toilet paper and looks quickly away as if I were a murderer. I bet she has used toilet paper before.

I could just disregard my nose and let it drip. "Oh, herro, can I havre a bottre of milk, a bag of orangges, the paper and ... ahhh ... oh, yeah ... and a box of tissues. By the whey, do you know how to make a trissure dance?"

"A trissure?"

"A trissure ... a tissue ... Oh, never mind."

It's cold tonight. Have I mentioned that?

To my right, I hear the sounds of a disturbance. Cans rattle. A weight slams into a wall. The city streets look away. The lights turn their glare away from the centre of the commotion. I can't see. The moon hides behind a cloud.

I look hard and focus on a couple of bodies. The bigger one, approaches the other, finds his range and strikes with force.

It's like a Japanese animated Manga film and the director has called action. I see a shadow thrown across a wall. Thhuuuump! It tries to get up and run, but a large,dark outline reaches out, grabs the shadow squeezing its throat. Zzzeeeeeugh! Teeth gnash.

The dominant shadow, it's outline bristling like cold steel, cocks back its arm and unleashes it into the slumped mass against the wall. A spray of black spots rush across the wall in fear. Swwwissshhh!

One of the nearby lights hears the danger and slowly revolves to get a better look. Its muted light shines across the scene. I see a pair of dangerous eyes glare back at the interruption. They are fire.

They belong to Jesus Miguel Luis Rodriguez.

The light moves its gaze in apology. Another punch. A boot. Uuurrrgh! A slumped heap lies quiet, as if sleeping.

Jesus Miguel Luis Rodriguez removes a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his hands. I realise my nose is dripping and I apply my toilet paper to it.

"He will not trouble you again, m'amore." I hear him say.

From out of the shadows, comes a woman in a long overcoat that I recognise. The large collar hides her face. She rushes to him and falls into his arms harboured in his chest. Her lips reach up to his and they meet in a long kiss.

I see your face. The face of Silvia Rose.

The director shouts "cut".