¿El último? (The Last One?)

In Cuba, people spend a lot of time waiting. Waiting for food, for transportation, for things most of us don’t think twice about. Over time, that waiting starts to show, not in dramatic ways, but in subtle, human ones. A hand resting against the mouth. Eyes drifting off, not really focused on anything. It happens naturally, and sometimes, like in this moment, two people fall into the same gesture without even realizing it.

I remember how confusing it felt the first time I came across one of these lines. There’s often no clear beginning or end. Just people standing, loosely gathered, all facing in the same direction. So you do what everyone does, you ask, ¿El último? (the last one?). Someone nods or points, and just like that, you know where you belong. You take your place and wait.

The two women here seem almost connected, even if they don’t know each other. The way they hold their hands, the way they look ahead, it’s the same feeling, the same quiet patience. Behind them, others stand in their own thoughts. No one looks angry. No one is making a scene. It’s something calmer than that, but also heavier. Like they’ve done this many times before, and will do it again.

That’s what stands out. The waiting isn’t unusual, it’s expected. It’s built into the rhythm of the day. You might spend hours just trying to get something simple. And when so much time goes into that, it leaves less time for anything else. You focus on what’s right in front of you, what you need, what’s available, what might run out.

The line moves, slowly. Sometimes barely at all.

And yet people stay. They don’t really have a choice.

There’s a kind of understanding in it. Everyone there knows what it takes just to get through the day. There’s no need to explain it. For a while, they share this space, this time. Then it’s over, and they go their separate ways.

Observing this, it doesn’t feel staged or symbolic. It feels real. Familiar. And that’s what gives it weight.

Because in that daily rhythm, you begin to notice something deeper, not loud or obvious, but steady. A way of getting through. A way of continuing, even when things don’t really change.

And for a moment, it almost feels like they’re not the ones being observed.

It feels like they’re the ones quietly showing you what it means to endure.