I tighten my face muscles, I open my right eye, and I see it reflected in the squares of glass sewn onto a woman's handbag. That's what I am. That's what I am. That old man whose features are fragmented by the uneven squares of glass. I am that eye. I am that eye. I am that eye furrowed by accumulated rage, an old, forgotten, but always renewed rage. I am that puffy green eye set between those eyelids. Eyelids. Eyelids. Oily eyelids. I am that nose. That nose. That nose. Broken. With wide nostrils. I am those cheekbones. Cheekbones. Where my white beard starts. Starts. Grimace. Grimace. Grimace. I am that grimace that has nothing to do with old age or pain. Grimace. My teeth discolored by tobacco. Tobacco. Tobacco. My bre-bre-breathing fogs the squares of glass, and someone removes the handbag from the night table.

"Look, Doctor, he's just faking…"

"Mr. Cruz…"

"Even now in the hour of his death he has to trick us!"

I don't want to talk. My mouth is stuffed with old pennies, with that taste. But I open my eyes a little more, and between my eyelashes I can make out the two women, the doctor who smells of aseptic things: his sweaty hands, stinking of alcohol, are now tapping my chest under my shirt. I try to push that hand away.

"Easy now, Mr. Cruz, easy…"

No. I am not going to open my mouth, or that wrinkled line with no lips reflected in the glass. I'll keep my arms stretched out on top of the sheets. The covers reach my stomach. My stomach…ah…And my legs stay spread, with that cold gadget between my thighs. And my chest stays asleep, with the same dull tingling that I feel…that…I felt when I would sit in one position for a long time in the movies. Bad circulation, that's all it is. Nothing more. Nothing more. Nothing serious. Nothing more serious than that. I have to think about my body. Thinking about your body wears you out. Your own body. Your body, whole.