El hombre la miró con deseo; su rostro era la historia repetida desde el principio de la humanidad; era un lobo, y en sus ojos no había la imagen de una mujer, sino de un cordero, al que acudía nuevamente para arrastrárselo por su cuerpo como una costilla momentánea, como un tumor al que tiraría después de usar.
     Ella tenía la edad de toda esa mala historia que ha tenido infinitos rostros, siempre como la Eva de las cicatrices, del baldón, la de la culpa; por eso nunca será bajada de la cruz, para que no descanse, para que el peso de la culpa esté arriba; por eso se le entregó como inocente cordero.
     Ya, en el hotel, el lobo, sin ritual ni alargues apropiados; sin palabras, pidió la sucesión rápido del tiempo, el desnudo, la posición, el preconcebido final de una lucha individual, monótona, muerta, porque no había cuerpo a cuerpo, eternidad instantánea.
     Ella lo sabía, lo supo siempre, y sin embargo se prestaba para que las siguieran arrastrando por la historia…

     ¡Mierda!, dijo de pronto, y paró de escribir, qué estoy haciendo, alimento al lobo con mi escritura de cordero; necesito bajar de la cruz o sino el maldito se la comerá como a otras; necesito que lo enfrente, pero cómo si ya la entregué; no puedo borrar nada, detenerme; invento historias, soy una mujer que vive para eso; pero, ¡claro! eso es, cortaré mis manos para que sus manos no la toquen, para detener la escritura; para que ella escape.
     Fue una decisión momentánea, de angustia; tomó el cuchillo, pero vio la sangre empañando la computadora; como no era la suya se asustó, largo el arma; asustada metió sus ojos en la historia para leer lo que pasaba:

     ...Sobre la cama yacía degollado el lobo, como la sangre no era poca porque era larga la historia, se salía del cuarto, brotaba por la pantalla, moría en forma de espuma al caer al piso. La policía levantó el cadáver; no hubo culpables, y amablemente llevaron a casa al inocente cordero que hallaron junto al lobo.

     The man looked at her with desire; her face was the repeated history from the beginning of humanity; he was a wolf, and in her eyes was not the image of a woman, but of a lamb, which he went again to drag through his body like a momentary rib, like a tumor that he will discard after use.
     She has the age of all that bad history that has had infinite faces, always as the Eve of scars, of the curse, of guilt; that is why she will never be taken down from the cross, so that she will not rest, so that the weight of her guilt will be on her; that is why she gave herself up as an innocent lamb.
     Already, in the hotel, the she-wolf, without ritual or appropriate elongations; without words, she asked for the rapid succession of time, the nudity, the position, the preconceived end of an individual struggle, monotonous, dead, because there was no body to body, instant eternity.
     She knew it, she always knew it, and yet she was willing to let herself be carried away by history...

     Shit, she said suddenly, and stopped writing, what am I doing, I'm feeding the wolf with my lamb writing; I have to get off the cross or the bastard will eat her like the other girls; I need her to confront him, but how if I've already handed her over; I can't erase anything, I'm a woman who lives to invent stories; but, sure, that's it, I'll cut my hands so his hands won't touch her, to stop the writing; so she'll escape.
     It was a momentary decision, of anguish; she took the knife, but saw the blood staining the computer; as it was not hers, she got scared and put the weapon away; frightened, she turned her eyes to the story to read what was happening:

     ...On the bed lay the slaughtered wolf, as the blood was not little because the story of the wolf was long, it overflowed from the room, flowed down the screen, died like foam as it fell to the floor. The police picked up the carcass, there was no one to blame, and kindly took home the innocent lamb they found next to the wolf.