Zibelina had just left and had milk in her breasts. Quim Tiliano Zibeta, the man whose sperm reached the supreme, and the only acceptable, purpose for his liquid and uncomfortable existence in a quick encounter with an egg of my mother – from which were also able to translate into me some of the biological phenomena that precede any and all flash of consciousness – observed for a considerable time how his robust maid reflected on the face the wet and tired atmosphere of that spring afternoon. In fact, what fascinated him at that moment, to the point of feverishly desiring to be given to project that image in eternity, was the skillful way in which Zibelina leaned over the stove, cleaning it with only one hand, while the other held one of her breasts, swollen under her gown, wanting to run away. Why are you holding back? Are you going down? They've got a lot of milk. Sometimes it hurts.