sabado y domingo

The idols were stacked up outside the door. Haphazardly like Russian Nesting dolls. The two men, old enough to remember when the idols were new, sat at the bare table on simple chairs turned towards the open door, their backs hunched under their matching black overcoats, their sparse gray hair barely supporting the hats on their heads.
Outside the door, one of them thought, it's nice eventhough the weather is gray and old, there have been worse days when the alley way was covered in rain, when the sun was so hot it twice backed the bricks holding back the weight of the earth that framed the pathway to the coast.
I can hear it more than I can see it, always the waves continue to crash, but it takes a clear day to see over the hill at the end of the row and make out the seafoam spray.
The floor was swept clean by the constant breeze, the only light peered through the door and it lost all energy after dimly lighting the table.
I hate these bugs that gather about the door and won't come in any closer. Spain has never been the same, never regained what it was that we lost. Now there's just the dry heat or the overcast days, the music that never stops, and the ocean that never sleeps.
The fought against the heat in their black clothes their longsleeves and ties, their hats that seemed to heat their heads and cook their brains that never saw the light of the sun. They watched the world go by through an open slit forever never turning to face each other even thought their laments were the same.
A Tuesday was an infinity, the next week an infinity-plus-one. How many had they sat through? And how many more would come before they reached the bottom of the void?