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Quente

Não conseguia dormir. A cama lhe parecia quente. As janelas estavam todas abertas, mas não havia vento. Olhar através delas levaria a pensar que o fim do mundo havia chegado. As lâmpadas dos postes iluminavam as ruas como sempre, mas não havia movimento, não havia som. As árvores estavam imóveis, nem uma folha fora do lugar. Ninguém passando de carro, saindo do carro, passeando com um cachorro, nada se movia. 

Levantou-se. A camisola estava ensopada. Pegou outra, mais leve, na gaveta. Vestiu e foi, descalça, à cozinha. Muito gelo e água em um copo grande tomado em grandes goles. Deixou a água escorrer pelos cantos da boca até o peito. Isso ajudou, por alguns minutos.

Sentou no sofá, ligou a TV e zapeou pelos canais. O tecido do sofá grudava no seu corpo. Desligou a TV, levantou e caminhou pelo apartamento mais uma vez. Abriu a torneira de água fria da banheira. Parecia mais morna que o normal. Voltou à cozinha e encheu um balde de gelo. Despejou-o na banheira e mergulhou, as luzes apagadas. Acabou cochilando uns minutos. Saiu da banheira, vestiu a camisola de novo e deitou-se na cama, molhada, onde finalmente dormiu. 

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