Perforated for Easy Tear
Irene and I got used to staying in the house by ourselves, which was crazy,
eight people could have lived in that place and not have gotten in each other's
way. We rose at seven in the morning and got the cleaning done, and about
eleven I left Irene to finish off whatever rooms and went to the kitchen. We
lunched at noon precisely; then there was nothing left to do but a few dirty
plates. It was pleasant to take lunch and commune with the great hollow,
silent house, and it was enough for us just to keep it clean. We ended up
thinking, at times, that that was what had kept us from marrying. Irene turned
down two suitors for no particular reason, and María Esther went and died on
me before we could manage to get engaged. We were easing into our forties
with the unvoiced concept that the quiet, simple marriage of sister and brother
was the indispensable end to a line established in this house by our
grandparents. We would die here someday, obscure and distant cousins
would inherit the place, have it torn down, sell the bricks and get rich on the
building plot; or more justly and better yet, we would topple it ourselves before
it was too late.