((hot)): Mis Marcadores Moviles

She didn’t remember putting it there. In the image, she was laughing, her hair shorter, her eyes wider. Next to her stood a man with a crooked smile and a guitar case slung over his shoulder. On the back, in smudged ink: Sofía + Mateo. Granada. Puente de los Suspiros. Otoño.

One rainy Tuesday in a temporary studio apartment in Buenos Aires, Sofía picked up an old copy of Rayuela —Hopscotch—by Julio Cortázar. She had read it years ago, in another lifetime. As she opened it, something fell out. mis marcadores moviles

Each one marked not a page in a book, but a moment in her life. She would slide them into the pages of whatever novel she was reading at the time. When she finished the book, she didn’t remove the bookmark. She left it there, a fossil trapped in amber. She didn’t remember putting it there