We sat at the kitchen table. Marta had made chicken and rice. He had come in after we had started eating. He gave Marta a look: Don't give me shit. He brought with him an air that took over the room instantly. Marta gave me a look: Don't say a word. I couldn't eat. He wouldn't sit. He took a black pistol and a glass jar full of eyeballs out of his bag as if they were a notebook and a pen case. He put them both on a small table against the wall and sat down to eat.
"So you're a journalist huh?"
"No. No, I'm just a photographer."
He slammed his fist on the table. The jar crashed to the floor. Eyeballs rolled everywhere. Nobody moved.
He stood up, moved towards me.
Some of the eyes seemed to follow him.
Others just stared at the floor.