Spoon holder I had to go to the party, and I hate the holidays. But Marita is married, second time, had been lovers for a long time.
"I want you to come," he said, and I promised I would go. The first time she had married a young boy more than she, a kid who was studying for a physical education teacher and whose predominant quality, she said, was to be, he, the boy, a machine to catch. Now married a gentleman who had been about eighteen years, and was wrapped in money. Marita knew what he needed, according to circumstances he played live, and somehow get it. Good for Marita.
So I went to the party, but did not really want. We took every so often, but we knew about fifteen years ago, sex was no longer the most important. We were lovers who had come to a strange plateau in our relationship warm, loving marriage with a plateau, because relationships are often furtive lovers (and perhaps should not) last that long.
I hate the holidays, I said. It is the only place where I know I'm not going to entertain, as an insomniac who is in bed with resignation, because he knows he will not get to sleep. All this desperation, these spasmodic want to feel something before returning quickie to continue with the infinite sadness of their pathetic lives. That impostada carnival in Rio, that rusty laugh over a grin of fear of being alive, knowing that life is that happens to you when the party's over, I dunno, I get wrong.
piola found a boy, always, in every party there is a boy piola. "I need whiskey
took a hundred-and looked for a moment to note, with astonishment, as if for the first time I saw him. Then, slowly, in slow motion, as if the ticket had legs that allow him to swim in the air, put it in the hand of the lad. I need whiskey all night, but whiskey truth. Not that you were serving polish. I'll hide a bit, over there, "pointed out a somewhat isolated spot, a kind of absurd forest green carpet and built with plastic plants. The place had a sort of miniature waterfall, too. A light effect was that the water seems lilac. If you looked more than a minute the water, you could have a detached retina.
I sat down, camouflaged by a species of palm. In front of the hall had mounted a small stage, and played a band followers of Queen. The singer was a skinny sissy with white tights and bare chest. He wore a fake mustache, the poor.
came the waiter, with an extra large whiskey. A single ice, I did not say anything, I had read the pathology perfectly, very deep, that tormented me.
-Chivas "he said, left the glass. It's the best thing here.
I took a few sips and I felt better. It was two o'clock. Had to endure a couple of hours, so that future Marita did not blame me.
"There are two types of women, kid, two types of women, looked up, spoke to me. Behind the palm tree, put it against the wall, an old, shrunken. Rather bald, dark brown suit that smelled of mothballs, something in her face reminded me of James Fijtman. Had just been Fijtman reading some poems, and the book had a little picture card with the old man's face. It seemed much, with this old the other side of the tree. Moulin Rouge, called the book.
- What?
"There are two types of women, and nothing more," and sipped his glass. Holding the glass with both hands. It was a long glass of gin, the only option, or alcohol kit. Was missing several teeth, the old man. His fingernails were long, very long, and yellow. Upon sipping the drink he closed his eyes, was a moment of pure pleasure, he softened the factions.
"Well, yes. Maybe, "I said. The false Mercury out of tune 'bicycle' in a way hard to imagine.
-holder is copetín women, and she took another drink spoon, and put the glass on the carpet, next to one of his shoes that seemed about to peel off. I'll explain, boy, for what you have to explain. Women copetín holder is a woman born with a snack bar holder, is genetic, like a mole. When you will to bed, the woman will prodding, one or two pinchacitos, with that tenedorcito. And you do not realize, because they are a couple of pinchacitos per night, as if you were a vegetable pie before going to the oven. But I holes, you lose all energy, you're going to stay dry as a ficus, enchastrado in everyday sadness of a daily fact of paperwork and medical checkups and a half in Miramar. Until one day you look in the mirror, the light, and you realize you're all tapped out, they're almost sad edge hologram with nothing in it, understand nothing, what happened to you, but give no more.
He paused. I took a long swig of whiskey. Applause was heard in the background. The show was over the apocryphal Queen. People returned to the tables for the main course or for dessert.
"The woman is different spoon holder copetín women," he went, she was born with a spoon spoon, no matter why. And you will lay down at night because at night you have to sleep and you lie down, and the woman takes the spoon spoon and serve a spoonful of your heart, as if your heart was an ice cream sambayon. And you do not realize, no, you have no way of realizing it, because the women teaspoon teaspoon teaspoon is a girl. And the woman is served a teaspoon of your heart, every night. Until you wake up one day and realize you're a beast without a soul. You do not care, or hunger in Ethiopia, or put the legs in the sea. All we want is the loot, the loot to the car, or for the weekend house, or buy a Cartier watch. There is nothing left ambition rather than something that does not even matter, going to Miami to see the Donald Duck T-shirt, driving a convertible, having a TV the size of Guernica, sort of. I covered the hatred, you're a ball of hatred and ambition.
And he stopped, the old man. He ran a hand through the bony skull and stared down between his legs, the glass, as he stands in a dock and is contemplating the sea.
- And then? "I looked at side-What to do? "Nothing
scratched his nose. Grab what you can. Ends all for the guy, always. Whatever.
Having