Rebeca handed you the pot filled with soup, she placed it next to you. As you had foreseen, you had no appetite.

Rebecca stared at you, an unyielding gaze.

Then, you lifted the lid. You lifted it slowly, as slow as Rebecca had placed it. You felt a strange dread as you uncovered the pot, but understood it was your nerves playing tricks on you. You fantasized of being far away, maybe in the lobby rather than the top floor, alone with her.

Rebecca stared at you, an unyielding gaze.

And when the lid was finally removed, and you looked inside, and then you looked at Rebecca, and Rebecca was staring at you with unyielding gaze, and she turned her eyes towards the inside of the pot, and she smiled, and you started moaning, and everything decided to dance in front of your eyes, everything started to blend together, and only the image of the lid remained, rising slowly, the liquid inside, and... and...

You had not expected that. You were too smart to expect that. You had the intelligence to spare, even to the point that the overflow was unable to keep on living inside your brain, and it decided to seek a way out. Now you count numbers and more numbers sitting in the bunk. No one can get a word out of you, but you used to look through the window, as if you expected to see luminous signs, and then you step forward with your right foot, you twist your hip the same way that someone who is preparing to swing a golf club would, and you bury your empty hand inside the void of your cell.

Fragment of ‘Puzzle’ by Julio Cortazar 1938.