At The End of The world

 At the end of the world. Mermaid.

The end of the world looked like nothing. The end of the world looked like all those who failed there. They had drifted for a long time, they arrived carrying worn suitcases, threadbare backpacks, some had nothing, others too much. Some had not taken so long to reach it, they had burned their youth, they stood haggard on the quays, ready to do battle, fist or Surin to board a departing ship.
No map described the access. No one really chose his route. The question was not to reach him but to flee from him.

The bad wine that was poured in the smoky cafes of the port served as a mirror. At the bottom of a glass, a man was contemplating the reflection of the face of a woman he had unloved, further on another saw the outline of his cowardice. A woman with questionable hair was smiling at her own image, a reflection of her good years. The rooms were full, each in his own way drank his pains, his regrets. The scent of alcohol rose to the head, exploded in sprays of resentment and hatred, unfulfilled desires, soft loves, self-serving hypocrisies, cold calculations, fiendish macerations, renouncements. Not all of them were sad, as this group of hilarious sailors feasted on their own baseness. By paying more attention, their exuberance turned out to be feigned, their laughter rang false. Me, I was no better and I was also looking for a boat.
She was adorable, lost, dark circles under her eyes. I sat down at his table, a circle of marble stained with stains, with empty cups and glasses with fingerprint-stained sides. At the end of the world, politeness was a waste of time, weakness. I wanted a wife.
- A glass?
- Thank you, but no, I don't like what you see there.
- My room is upstairs.
She shrugged and raised her face to me. I immersed myself for a moment in his gray eyes, the color of mist, just to see, to steal bits of his history. I saw nothing, not even curiosity, much less desire.
- Can we see the boats in your room?
- You can see all the way to the end of the pier.
- I follow you.
Climbing upstairs, I badly put down her forms. Her threadbare jeans hinted at bits of her caramel-colored skin. She left behind a sweet scent. I pushed open the door. She walked past me, avoiding brushing against me and without a glance. She ran straight to the window, pushed the shutters open, then remained motionless, facing the harbor. Hints of mud and diesel rose from below, with the muffled rumors of the bar room.
Across the street, at the quayside, the black sides of a banana tree stood in the oily waters. The ship would set sail in the morning. A sailor was smoking in front of the gangway.
I would have told her that I was a sailor, that I could get her on board, that she could flee the end of the world with me. But what was the point of lying, I knew she was going to give me what I wanted.
She had thrown her sneakers in a corner of the room. She was standing against the light of the streetlights, I could no longer make out the details of her face, only two reflections in the line of her gaze and a damp glow near her mouth.
- By the way, if you're interested, my name is Lydie.
The range of her voice had changed, nothing to do with the lost woman I had accosted downstairs. She challenged me, stung me to the quick by his attitude, arched, hands behind his back at the level of his kidneys. I had attended a bullfight once in Malaga. I didn't know why, but the comparison seemed perfect, and I was the bull. And then, that she had mentioned her first name had displeased me as if everything was becoming more complicated. I got angry.
- Take off your clothes! I said brutally.
- Olé, she blurted out coldly, as if she had read me.
She lit a cigarette and handed it to me. His saliva on the filter smelled of iodine, of salt.