One Hundred Years of Solitude

him even there, provoking
him, tormenting him,
hovering about him with her
implacable horsefly buzzing,
saying that, of course, while
there was nothing to eat
except stones, her husband
was sitting there like a sultan
of Persia, watching it rain,
because that was all he was, a
slob, a sponge, a good-for-
nothing, softer than cotton
batting, used to living off
women and convinced that he