That morning I had an accident. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t the kind of accident that is usually followed by a thorough investigation. It was a childish and minor one. I wetted myself. It wasn’t out of a need to go to the bathroom but unexpectedly; out of the blue. I found myself red-faced. I could admit the situation was a little funny. I thought there was something odd going on. The fact is that just before the accident, I was completely sure of having been in front of the toilet a few minutes before, ready to shoot, except that I probably wasn’t.
My bewilderment didn’t diminish when I had the second accident in a row. I spilled my coffee. How on earth could an already drunk coffee be spilled? The frontpage of The Guardian, now a hotchpotch of ink smudges and black liquid, was featuring a story about the Iraq war. I was reading it with rapt attention; supposedly, my mug was already in the kitchen sink when coffee was spilled.
I went to the bathroom and arranged my clothes. I jumped into the shower and adjusted the water temperature to my taste. After taking a quick shower, I dried myself with a towel and put my clothes on. Then, I was about to comb my hair when I found myself in front of a mirror with no image of me being reflected. I closed my eyes in a state of shock. I heard the sound of water. Marta, I thought. I set the bath curtain aside, and it was me who was taking the shower. I panicked, it panicked too.