Mrs. Luciana running since she was a child. Not at a competitive level and very rarely if someone was watching her. In a walk around qualify as calm: he stopped to look stupid every step and moved with cat-sated cream. He was also known for his carelessness, and it was terribly, terribly faded. The type of woman who over the years Fifty would go around in a convertible with a pink handkerchief around his head and sunglasses rimmed with enormous white plastic. That is if the life of Mrs. Luciana was more like a film, because in reality the license Mrs. Luciana had never taken. He had also never married, and this seemed strange to all, was the kind of woman who seemed born for you to bake chocolate cakes and children. She had wide hips and calves turned, and the kind of smile that makes you want to snuggle under a blanket outside as well when there are forty degrees in the shade. Mrs. Luciana He made forty-three years this month. She looked about thirty, had almost no wrinkles and his complexion was extraordinarily pink.
The first time Mrs. Luciana had begun to run was twelve years old. Two days before her mother died of cancer, after having poisoned the lives of his family for a period that seemed endless at all. Luciana for her mother's death had been a pain relief together. In the midst of these drapes blacks, close to crying and funeral atmosphere that reigned in the house she had felt like climbing into a euphoria, a tickle, an irrepressible desire to get as inappropriate dancing and jumping for joy.
His family lived in a large stone farmhouse on the back of which lay a huge field of wheat. Tiny, in her black dress and in his patent-leather shoes to match, Luciana had gone out and had started running between the ears. He started walking, then everything she had in fact looking forward, arms, legs, hands, feet, every cell of his being wanted to speed up, feeling the contours blur, losing definition, run, for God's sake, run. The ears of the revolt against the dress tearing, scratching every inch of exposed skin. It did not matter. Luciana ran, only this amount. He ran and laughed in the face of death, fear, everything. At one point she started screaming, and to the other end of the field were racing and one single scream, liberating, furious, beautiful.
Fortune had wished that his gesture was interpreted as a manifestation of pain.
Feverish and exhausted, had brought home in a backpack and receiving immediately put to bed. Alone in the silence of his room, Luciana had witnessed with apprehension at the birth of their first decent moral conflict in his life. The relief of pain was stronger, more overbearing Apollo Dionysus, the feeling of joy that he felt much more powerful than any other negative emotion. Luciana for the duration of the night she felt uncomfortable, inconvenient, incorrect. Then at dawn he had thought, but who cares. And he did the only sensible thing a human can do in such situations: he had dug his own way out.
Since then he had not stopped running. Each time the emotion overwhelmed, feeling inadequate, that what the shaking was in too bad of the largest film that ran around, she put a pair of comfortable shoes and ran. It ran smoothly and accelerates with gusto, measured in a crescendo to the point where he could not help herself and let herself go completely. And he ran, christ of a god if he ran. He ran that was stronger and faster than anything. He ran to beat the devil.
Micol Beltramini has bad press in the sense that we can enjoy a casino to resent. He has a collection of stories scurrilous and bargained with Newton & Compton published two more books this year. So, in fact, is the writer. But do not tell it too loud. It is superstitious.
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