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She walked through the door. Sandra did not expect to find there. Even less watering the geraniums. And that face of confusion about unexpected act of terror in the eyes of Leo. The a look that was regarded as just by definition, rather it was a clumsy way of rebuke to the four winds that professed hatred. Those eyes were not looking for Sandra, aluminum tunnels dug in his soul longed to discover its secrets and perhaps hated, not because of their inability to find them empty as the reality of his absence. Finally, the silence gave way to the interrogation stopped. Where she was, with whom, doing that. His answers were concise innocent, it seems that even sincere. But Leo could not help but notice his hands. Concealed buds fingers twisting until, suddenly, stretched, so that seemed to want to expand, not only to discover his secret, possibly placed in the palm of the hand, but to quench their desire for freedom, as if she found a kind of dreamy pleasure. Playful fingers, invaded by the morbid desire to uncover many of deception, invaded by the need to open, like a zipper, the interior landscape of Sandra, always adhered to the narrow framework laid out by Leo violet.
"Lately I do not trust me, do I gave you reasons for it?" He asked. He watched, silent as a voyeur who has been cast in the film set of a classic tragedy. And it was his hand, not hers, which overturned by an awkward movement, small shower, still full of water. "What I make no doubt?". The water came Sandra's feet up, forming a small stream that was confused with the white porcelain floor. The discussion was over. Her hands rested on her thighs now, exhausted, and getting rid of impure remains with those who had been forced to load. Leo leaned over and wiped the floor with some paper. He managed to clean up Sandra's bare feet, which, half pay, half in weariness, had not noticed at the creek that came to her. Running away from the words, or perhaps for fear of not finding them, she retired, humiliated, to his room while he finished arranging the derangement produced by that passion brawl home.
"Lately I do not trust me, do I gave you reasons for it?" He asked. He watched, silent as a voyeur who has been cast in the film set of a classic tragedy. And it was his hand, not hers, which overturned by an awkward movement, small shower, still full of water. "What I make no doubt?". The water came Sandra's feet up, forming a small stream that was confused with the white porcelain floor. The discussion was over. Her hands rested on her thighs now, exhausted, and getting rid of impure remains with those who had been forced to load. Leo leaned over and wiped the floor with some paper. He managed to clean up Sandra's bare feet, which, half pay, half in weariness, had not noticed at the creek that came to her. Running away from the words, or perhaps for fear of not finding them, she retired, humiliated, to his room while he finished arranging the derangement produced by that passion brawl home.
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