The Editor

The far-away man with perfect teeth is all wet. It is raining, and he is tired of the water. His short blond hair has become an exhausted sponge, and rivers of water from the sky run down on his face. He does not care. He does not try to dry himself. He does not try to escape from the rain. He is just standing there and staring at the façade of that house.
The far-away man with washed eyes is still wet and wondering. Wondering if he should ring that damn doorbell or wait until being seen, until someone comes out and asks him what he wants, what he is doing there out in the rain, why he does not go home, why he does not come in and gets dry and has some tea and home-made cake, freshly baked.
The bell rings. It rings because the index finger in the left hand of our man keeps it ringing for two seconds, and then it rings so someone inside is touched and goes to the door to see who is interrupting this agony in the depths of autumn.
The woman inside the house, who hears the bell ringing, stops writing in the computer, somehow annoyed, stands up and, before closing the door of the room where her husband has been sleeping every night for many years, and seeing him sleeping, covered with a bedspread she made when she had nothing else better to do, she walks on to the dining room, and through the window recognizes our far-away blonde man, with his perfect teeth and that look in his eyes impossible to avoid.
And she thinks that she cannot decide whether to open the door or signal to him through the window. That she does not want to see him all wet like he is. That she would like him to catch a cold so she would look after him in the room next to her husband's, where she has been sleeping every night for many years. That she does not want the bell to ring again, but she has been thinking way too much and the water man presses again the button that makes the bell scream like mad with that hoarse, opaque, all dry voice.
She knows him. She has been seeing him for years at the library. She gave him her card and told him she could be of help in editing his stories. She lied to him. I’m not married, I’m divorced. I rent the room to a traveler once in a while, but I work at home as an editor for a newspaper in the capital city. I write poetry every time I realize it's time to sleep and to travel to the West.
She leans her hand on the bronze door handle. She lets her face lean forward onto the white door and feels the man's back resting on the wood that is now wet because of the drowning shirt of someone who has come asking for help. She thinks that she cannot resist it. That she does not want to. And she opens the door.
There he is. An angel with no wings, no curls, no white clothes, no chubby pinkish cheeks, just standing. Before her eyes, the far-away man is an invitation to be accompanied by someone in this grey, depressing, lasting day. The man only smiles and shows his teeth, and his wet hands, and his eyes that seem… that she does not know what they seem. She thinks that they are attractive. That the man will not stand any longer underneath this sky that keeps filtering water.
She says hello almost imperceptibly, invites him to come inside and, before closing the door, she looks around and notices that curtains move in a house across the street. What a gossipy lady. Her window has eyes. The woman knows what other women say in the neighborhood. They have insinuated it to her, but she gives no answer. She just stares at them and goes her way, giving her card out to writers she meets in cocktail parties and at the local library. That it is not the best thing she can do, she knows. That she does not find any other way out, she also knows. She would have liked an ideal husband, one of living flesh and bones. But all she has is an absent, depressed man, lying in bed. A man who, for years, has only got out of the room where he is quartered to check that there are no gas leaks left on purpose. Because that man, her loyal husband, gets in touch with her very few times. Knocking once on the wall, he lets her know that he is hungry, thirsty, or that she can take his plate away. Knocking twice means that she can enter the room, clean it, take the pajamas and change the sheets while he bathes and sleeps in the bathtub. Sometimes he talks to her, asking for the newspaper or the radio. No more. No less.
The blonde man asks her for a towel. She runs diligently and brings him one, and dries his hair and face. He does nothing. He did not expect so much attention. She takes his shirt off. He takes his shoes off. She covers him with a checked blanket and tells him to sit down. She makes some tea. She cuts a generous portion of chocolate cake with strawberries and cream. Before coming back into the living room, she looks in the corridor mirror and checks her blouse, now with a lower cut. When she gets into the room, the man is leafing through a magazine, and when he sees her, he gives her a perfect grin lighted up by transparent blue sparks. She says thank you. She enjoys looking at him drinking tea and eating cake so naturally, as if he always visited her. It is the first time she sees him after that day when she gave him her card.
She sits closer to him and spoon feeds him. The man does not resist it. He thinks that he does not want to. That he has no better idea for such a rainy and heavy day. That it may be a good story she will edit later. Perhaps it is a technique.
The loyal husband wakes up and thinks he can hear a whine or sob coming from the living room. His wife may have temporarily adopted a cat from the street, one of those cats that protect themselves from the rain standing under the door header. He thinks that it might be good for her, for every week he hears kittens purring in the living room or in the bedroom next to his. He smiles and covers his head with the bedspread that his devoted wife gave to him many years ago.
The man gets dressed with other clothes, dry clothes that she brought from her bedroom. She tells him that he cannot come until next week because she has many other stories to edit from other writers who will come. That he cannot call, that he can come without notice and that he can bring his works.
The man kisses her goodbye, goes away smoking, looks at her with a charming smile and thanks her with a signal made with his perfect hands.
The rain has stopped. She is ironing in the kitchen. It is night already. She hears a knock on the service door. It is a writer. Another one. She opens the door and he comes in. Leave your work here, on the night table. Now lie down.