Pieces of Me, Pieces of Havana

Ay, mi’jito, por favor, dame la mano, por Dios. What was a request before has now become a command. I stretch my hand out timidly. She takes it and leaves the palm facing up. Her right hand travels down my right hand, following the lines. Her voice turns into a whisper. This one is love. Will she leave life for the end? The rocking chair on which she sits does not move. Perched on the end of it, she looks at me, looks into my eyes and…

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