One Hundred Years of Solitude

had time to dream anything.

Not today. he told the
barber. Well make it on
Friday.

            He  had a   three-day   beard

speckled with white hairs, but
he did not think it necessary
to shave because on Friday he
was going to have his hair cut
and it could all be done at the
same time. The sticky sweat
of the unwanted siesta
aroused the scars of the sores