Fine young cannibales

That last summer they sat at the table of a nameless hotel somewhere in Lisboa. It was the evening. He never left his room before five o’clock in the afternoon. He did not appreciate the sun. He was afraid of the sun-burned. She understood. She was OK . She loved him. Once he loved her, too.

While dinner he was eating to fast and at all time casting an eye  towards the church on the top of a hill. In the distance of a couple of meters a bunch of children stood, torn and dirty, gazed immovably at their mouths. Some of them were singing a strange sort of a serenade, the rhythm of empty cans and paper bags trumpeting was echoing across the empty square as it would be calling others for help. And indeed more of them were turning up. They were coming from side streets, climbing across the roofs, leaping off balconies and beating their own rhythm, stronger, faster so they could finally gather around their table and with animal gaze stare at their mouths. The noise was unbearable. Waiters were confusingly running amongst the children and yelling at them. Some of the guests left their tables and ran off inside the hotel. They were the only ones left sitting. Than he stood up, threw the money on the table and pulled her after him. The children surrounded them. Some of them threw themselves on to the tables and started devouring everything in front of them. The others pushed towards those two. It came to jostle. She fell. The noise was unbearable.

The waiter ran up to her and helped her get up. She turned around to see where is he. He was gone, vanished. The noise was dwindling away. She ran after him. The slope was steep. The heart was panting. The wind was blowing up the skirts of black ladies rubbing along the way up to the church. She heard roaring of those little freaks. She threw herself in the middle of the children. She was screaming. Howling. Kicking and biting. The noise was gone as something would be cut off.

In the grass in front of the church she found cans covered in blood. White bags were being carried around by the wind. It started chiming. She looked away and started throwing up against the wall. In the grass, nibbled and with arms cut off, he, her only love, lied there like Apollo. The black, curved figures were quietly going to the evening mass.   

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