One Hundred Years of Solitude

uncomprehendingly in the
living room without saying a
word. At that moment he had
no desire for her. He found
her different, entirely foreign
to the image that her smell
brought on, as if she were
someone else. He drank his
coffee and left the house in
depression. That night, during
the frightful time of lying
awake, he desired her again
with a brutal anxiety, but he
did not want her that time as