Crocodile Tears. Mercedes Rosende

table covered with medicines, the yellowing family photographs sitting on the marble tops of chests of drawers, the walls darkened by the passage of time, her whole house.

      Adjusting the instrument, Ursula flies a hundred and fifty yards, passing through the window of a well-lit room with which she is already familiar. In this space, everything is clean and light and uncluttered, everything is modern and complete, the room is painted white, there is a pair of brushed metal lamps with halogen bulbs, some black-and-white photos, a couple of designer armchairs and, in the centre, an enormous square bed. White. She halts when she comes to the couple who are in the middle of their bedtime ritual. The scene is simple and predictable: she undresses 51and puts on a nightdress, he undresses and slips between the sheets. Once in bed, each takes out a book, reads, sometimes they seem to speak. Ursula waits, ten minutes pass, twenty, she begins to lose hope. This is the worst part; the waiting feels eternal, and there is no certainty that her patience will be rewarded. They might just put down their books and turn out the light.

      Ursula watches these people she doesn’t know, who barely move, watches them turn the pages, adjust an arm, tug at the blanket, take a sip from a glass of water.

      She has observed other couples in her life: many, truth be told. She hates thinking about it. Even more than that, she hates repeating it and knowing she will repeat it, she struggles every day to repress these memories and above all to repress the impulse, and for long stretches of time she is successful. But sometimes there is something like a glimmer, a spark that becomes a fire, and off she goes and sets up her telescope or stops in front of her downstairs neighbours’ door. Ursula has known where to look for many years.

      There is a small warning that her wait is over: the woman puts down her book and, instead of kissing the man on the cheek and turning off her bedside light, she strokes his hair and then strokes him again, beneath the sheets. The man puts down his book, turns to her, moves the sheets aside, strokes her neck and kisses her ears. Ursula breathes heavily, following the feline movements of the man and the woman as they touch each other; she watches as one of the nightgown straps falls, she closes her eyes, sighs, opens her eyes again. She watches them lick one another, imagines each taste, each texture, she can smell the musk of their sweat. She pants. The two have commenced their mating ritual, the man is sitting and she is on top of him, they rock 52rhythmically, the woman’s head is tilted back and, squatting, she moves up and down, up and down.

      At a precise moment, Ursula stops breathing, and the only thing that exists is the image the telescope offers her.

      And then the image is gone, and it is just her.