People came in their pyjamas, in slippers, in sandals – but real shoes, never.
I hadn’t eaten breakfast and wasn’t at all hungry. My pain was much greater than any hunger.
I walked to Rua do Progresso. I circled the market.
I sat on the pavement outside Seu Rozemberg’s pastry shop and... nothing.
The hours ran into one another and I didn’t make a single tostão.
But I had to. I had to. It grew hotter and the strap was hurting my shoulder, so I had to change positions from time to time.
I felt thirsty and went to get a drink at the fountain in the market.
I sat on the front step of the school, which I’d probably have to go to soon.
I put down the box, discouraged. Leaning my head on my knees like a doll, I just sat there, feeling listless.
Then I hid my face between my knees and covered it with my arms.
Better to die than go home without getting what I wanted.
A shoe tapped on my box and I heard a familiar, friendly voice.
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