The Butcher’s shop

Translated by: Catarina Pereira

Everything is just like I remember. The same people, the same sounds, the same smells and footsteps. Many of them are slow and carefree, while others look like they are in a rush to leave, as they have more important things to do.

This small grocery store that I used to come to — sometimes, even stroll by – makes me feel at home, but I never really understood why. It seems that it is getting repetitive, but I can’t stop. I don’t have a reason to stop. So, I continue, I also continue because I like to know how things will start and end. 

I start to have looks of disgust every time I come back here. Always the same aprons, the same uniforms, and the same whispers. Maybe because I just come for pleasure and never end up buying anything.

I hear a mighty stab against a butcher’s table farther away, next to the butcher’s shop.  Whenever I pass by during Easter or Christmas break, I see people burdened with shopping bags and presents alongside the big turkeys, delicious piglets and pudgy veals.

I put my hands inside my brown pockets and move forward until I get there, stopping in front of the lady who was already getting served. It’s a shame to see the butcher with such sad and tired eyes, even if she has one of the most fascinating professions ever…it seems that she is so used to this that she has lost all sensibility. 

I take a step further after the other one leaves, and I stare at perfectly cut-up bodies inside the window display.

— Hello, how can I help you?

She asks with a friendly, but forced tone, making my thirsty eyes peer at her slowly.

— I want to have a large piece of cow cut into five parts.

The woman looked at me for a few seconds and, with disdain, silently replied.

— You could only decide now, uh? — She said it quietly, in hopes I couldn’t hear her.  I kept myself quiet while she grabbed the meat and placed it on the big white cutting board, lifting her big, blood-ridden knife.

Swoosh! There’s one. Blood splashes against her apron, while her emotionless face fixates on the meat. My lips curve into a smile while her hand presses on the meat, squirting even more blood.

Such a beauty, so red…it reminds me of the lips of my beloved, whom I loved so dearly. There wasn’t any grief left, the moon is far, and my tears don’t hit the shore anymore. How I envy that.

Swoosh! There’s another one. It doesn’t matter if it’s carnage if it guarantees your survival, right?

Swoosh! Carnage can sometimes be beautiful when we want to see it in that way too; when we need its passion.  

I learned so much with her, with my beloved, just thinking about her…such perplexity, such perfection, her pale skin.

Swoosh! But everything depends on what your most profound desires instill in your aesthetic sense. Perhaps, for many, seeing pieces of meat being separated from one another doesn’t calm or excite, much less my beloved.

Swoosh! The last strike made me shake with emotion. My boxers get soaked, and I feel my vision turning white before glancing at the worn ceiling of the grocery store. 

After my beloved left… the taste of it intensified, it seems like it really has worsened.  I took a deep breath and looked again at the woman that gives me the meat in a plastic bag, who turned around, and disappeared inside the room where she worked.

I need to come back tomorrow.