Printing Press In-body (Barcelona-Perpignan; 7 de septiembre 2012)
He once put a slice of mango, juice dripping and all, into the crook of her arm and bent the arm like the handle on a printing press
(or like you might close a book.
The book, in fact, and the crumbs between its pages, were the basis of the metaphor.)
He pressed the mango flat (you know, like little girls might press flower petals between the pages of an atlas to preserve them. Or, on second thought, like you might press confetti that sweeps the ground outside a cathedral after a wedding has been hastily performed. If you cared enough to keep it, that is).
And to preserve it, no, he opens the book of her arm and eats that mango right up, juice dripping and all, making her laugh like all those other times.
Maybe now she’ll have the imprint of a mango slice on her inner upper forearm; maybe it’ll be like a fossil when she’s old and gone.
He has made a text of her. Their own printing press (del cuerpo).