My dad has a very late in life baby who’s still small named Rubor. Sometimes it’s spelled with an eñe over the b, a highly unusual accent.
The two front rooms of our apartment have been emptied and I can spread out stuff on the floors, reusing the space for something totally new. The rooms seem much bigger — they *are* much bigger I think. But it’s still creepy to have everything gone, though.
I’m back to my original paid-job hostel, a flat-fronted shack (possibly made from shipping containers and roll-up doors) with graffiti covering the windows. Being here finally reminds me of a girl who loved me, who I simply forgot about. Somehow my time with her just never was revisited, her story never came up again.