una tarde. Raymond Carver

Mientras escribe, sin mirar al mar, 
siente que la punta de la pluma se estremece.
La marea está subiendo hasta el guijarral.
Pero no es eso. No, 
se debe a que en ese momento ella ha decidido 
entrar en la habitación sin nada de ropa.
Adormecida, sin saber muy bien
dónde está. Se aparta el pelo de la frente.
Se sienta en el tocador con los ojos cerrados,
la cabeza hacia abajo. Repantigada. La ve
a través del vano de la puerta. Puede
que ella esté recordando lo que ocurrió por la mañana.
Después, abre un ojo y le mira.
Y sonríe dulcemente.




An Afternoon

As he writes, without looking at the sea,
he feels the tip of his pen begin to tremble.
The tide is going out across the shingle.
But it isn't that. No,
it's because at that moment she chooses
to walk into the room without any clothes on.
Drowsy, not even sure where she is
for a moment. She waves the hair from her forehead.
Sits on the toilet with her eyes closed,
head down. Legs sprawled. He sees her
through the doorway. Maybe
she's remembering what happened that morning.
For after a time, she opens one eye and looks at him.
And sweetly smiles.

Raymond Carver. Todos nosotros. Bartleby Editores. Madrid. 2006