Every year there is a summer and every summer has its one. But all of them, absolutely all of them, offer us a huge number of things that sting. And if it itches, you scratch, this is how it is. Let's put 12, so that it is not a round number, like your summer.
1. Mosquitoes.
Of course. Mosquitoes of all kinds that enter the bedrooms or eat your legs on a beach in Huelva (except those from there, which are already immune). Mosquitoes that make us think about this of nature and how small we are, that we fear its attack and its aftermath. The mosquito humanizes you, confronts you with the being you really are, outside of apps, screens and Wi-Fi. The mosquito and you. Nothing more. Trying to hunt him down as if he were a “charli”, devising military or guerrilla strategies, reasoning, trying to figure out his next step, muttering to him, threatening him, connecting your brain with his, tensing muscles, warning eyes, perfecting stealth. The mosquito bites, or ends up biting, and then dies engorged with blood. Die alone or by your excessive violence, the next morning, marking the wall forever. And then you scratch and scratch, hurt yourself or put up with it. And now, from the already dead mosquito, only that poison that you have inside remains. The mosquito transcends through you. And life goes on, the itching too.
2. Seafood spoiled.
Offer through the eyes, through the ears, bawling from waiters who sell what they don't have: fresh fish, freshly brought shellfish, animals, bugs, pincers, little heads to suck on. But it itches, itches, itches. That later, after paying "the painful one", the pleasure becomes drama and your vacation pilgrimage to the bathroom, to the other, to the one that does not have chlorine or salt.
3. The grass and the chlorine in the pool.
You try to convince yourself that going down to the "urban" pool, where your lorzas mix with those of your neighbors who you see dressed and serious and smelly throughout the year going down in the elevator, is an option to combat the heat and the frustration of a summer without a beach. And you go to the lawn, with a nice towel, with palm trees and suns. But that grass brushes against you, that green, and you notice that it itches, that your skin turns red, irritated because it's not what you were looking for. The skin speaks to you and you do not listen to it. The skin is telling you, between rash and rash: “Beach. Beach. Beach". In fact, the eruption draws like a "tatoo" a kind of Mediterranean cove. At least that's how you see it before the chlorine from the first swim of the season leaves your eyes fried, red, propping up your musky look, leaving any opportunity with the neighbor in an anecdote to dream of at nap time. Everything itches in the pool of the "urban", even the music the ear.
