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had always hated the nicknames because he was afraid. When I heard one remembered her grandmother. Grandma always used the diminutive, and each time I called ("Miguelín!") Made him feel small and insignificant. When Grandma died she was surprised at how tiny he was. He remembered a great grandmother, not the tiny old woman who was in the coffin. "Hi Grandma," he whispered, "Now that you're never more be Miguelín, finally now I'm Miguel. Miguel. Miguel. " As he repeated his name, adult full grown he was, he felt important. From that day used nicknames to everyone.

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mentally read the letter. Stopped the stew. Stew. Stew. By repeating felt in the mouth the taste of the dish. Stew. Stew. Soon he was satisfied and left the restaurant without eating. At night he wanted a pie. Empanada. Empanada. The word knew and relished the syllables until filled. For months, fed by words, more flavorful than the actual dishes. He stopped socializing, did not attend dinners or lunches. Even stopped eating tapas with friends. A day he read in the window of a bar: "Dish of the day, Paey" and sick to vomit.