José Martins Garcia - A Fome

And one night, perhaps on the eve of Christmas Eve, I was driven by the demon of the emergency room. I sat across from Mr. Sérgio, next to Mr. Pragana, in the company of the east wind, a sudden whistle in a bare tree or in the recovery of very old days.
The maid from the Pensão Ocidente, a beauty about to choose prostitution, blonde and fresh in the antechamber of future varnishes and lipsticks, was doubling my fruit ration, very coy and full of pity for the "handsome boy" who was getting thinner and thinner. But my fingers on the skin of her thigh aroused a simple negative shake from her, "don't think about things, boy!" So the urgency bit my teeth, a simple matter of a few escudos in my pocket - in principle intended for the purchase of a chop, one of those exuberant chops in the shop window, displayed after being seasoned, covered in a profusion of red promising spiciness. I swept away the tempting image, slammed my fist on the table, and declared:
– Let's go to the prostitutes!