Te ves la más bella y por eso sueñas que te espera tu azul, no seas coqueta, no. Te doy un consejo: no acaban los sueños como en ese cuento que te montas tú. I was belting out that sappy line when an old man crossed the street. He was drunk like me, and I hit him. I fled, drove a few blocks, crying from fear and guilt, feeling my heart reverberate, the blood accumulate and again, gush transparently from my eyes, with the image of the flying body, the brown jacket in the air, the noise of the body when it fell, and I accelerated just to make the point that nothing can be that bad—if you killed him you saved him. Questions assaulted me that I’m now able to articulate but that in the moment tumbled out; they had something to do with the value of life: what is the value of a life? but then the image of my cat sitting on the edge of the window looking out at the horizon suddenly came to me, and I thought that everything happening very well could be the memory of something that hadn’t happened, but fucking hell, things happen, I killed a person. I decided to go back to the intersection, I don’t know why, but there wasn’t a trace. Nothing whatsoever of the man or what had happened. The night and the street in the silence of what had not yet happened. I got out of the car to look, but there wasn’t blood, there weren’t neighbors or curious bystanders or an ambulance, what the hell happened? I killed him. I went back in time, looked at the street name, the song playing, and the guy being propelled into the air like a rigid acrobat, but I was no longer sure of anything, the drunkenness left on impact, and everything was doubt and a guilty knot in my stomach, my intestines churning. I bent low over the pavement, cars passed, and people passed, and I was looking for something, some fluid the accident would have left behind, but nothing. Around the corner there was a clinic where I decided to go and upon arriving at the emergency room, disheveled but ready to see the dead body or for someone to look up and blame me and for my life to take a different path, I sat down next to a Black woman who was crying as much as I was and who asked what had happened. I saw water pouring from her nose and her wide lips that barely moved. Trembling, I got close enough to her face to see the black hairs growing from her mustache. I calmed down seeing those hairs and those eyes that, though they were crying, did not spill tears. I told her I’m looking for a man I killed. She stayed still and then laughed and told me don’t be crazy and then the nurse came out and I asked her, but she didn’t say anything, no drunkard, no crash, no dead body, and from behind her came the woman’s little son, and she, while helping him with the crutches, took me by the hand and said let’s go.