“When I think about Fabio these days, I know he's the person who has loved me most, and just as I was, with all that flab he knew how to enjoy; with my butt like a barrel and my kitchen-table legs, and all the edginess of my personality—I suppose the medication softened those edges, though never to the point of eradication—every one of my facial expressions, my freckles, my pale complexion, and the threads of spittle in the corners of my mouth, a for-the-time-being that was more hopeless than anyone else's for-the-time-being, because I had no hope that anything better than what was happening could happen, and I didn't even want what was happening.”
Book:La trabajadora