It’s around 2AM; going home I notice a small grouping of people just in front of my door. The couple, I guess, is Colombian; the three bikers, two guys and a girl, locals.
I step closer. It’s the Belgian girl who offers explanation, though a slightly confused and confusing one. She hasn’t seen, she says, but it seems he has just slapped his wife. I ask him what happened: he insists she had hit him first. She speaks English and tries to calm things down: she says it’s alright, that “shit happens”,that this has never happened before – I also catch her telling him, in spanish, that her mouth is bleeding. He keeps insulting them, us, interrupting constantly when I try to speak with her; she then tells him to go home, and he does.
In the meantime, one of the bikers has called the police, then started off following him by bike. We stay, for a bit; the Belgian girl tells her, repeatedly, not to ever believe anyone has the right to do this. I tell her I live just there and that she can ring if needed. She smiles through her tears and says she appreciates. We share a hug, then she walks away – home. The Belgian girl calls her friend, tells her how proud she is of him; he tells her the police have arrived, or, in any case, there was a police car, and they are now talking to them.
The two remaining bikers go after their firend, fading into the night.
I stand in front of my door, looking for my keys, and cry.