had been my best friend until that day had been lusting after. This can serve as a substitute to temporarily shore up your vanity. But in the long run, it’s completely useless. Well anyway, when I saw myself sitting there, part of a duo whose other half consisted of Rosana, who was welcoming me with her mischievous sweetness, I realized that I was fulfilling my own desire for the first time ever, a true and eternal one. I already know it sounds tremendous bullshit. I even had goose pimples.
Rosana had turned thoughtful.
“I get five thousand pesetas pocket money on Saturdays,” she suddenly confessed. “Do you think my dad’s an idiot too?”
Perhaps because I was feeling vulnerable and tender, I decided to be brutal, forgetting that the girl next to me was not yet sweet sixteen.
“Of course he is. There are women who have to give some stinking drunk a blow job to earn five thousand pesetas. This way you’ll never know the value of things.”
Rosana’s eyes shone.
“Was your father poor?”
“My father
is
poor, if by that you mean someone who has to work and then pay taxes on every last fucking peseta he earns. That’s what I think, anyway.”
“So you’re a socialist.”
“Who told you that?”
“My father says that poor people are socialists because socialists promise them that they’re going to take everything from those of us who aren’t poor.”
“Your father is really very confused.”
“What are you then?”
“I’m a Bolshevik,” I improvised.
“And what do Bolsheviks want?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
Rosana frowned.
“Try me. I’m not stupid. And I studied twentieth century history in eighth grade.”
“We Bolsheviks go back to the nineteenth century, not the twentieth. We want to shoot people like your father and then shoot poor people so they realize that we’re all crooks and no-one is worth saving.”
“You’re kidding. You’re laughing at me.”
“Of course I am. I’m a nobody, and I’ll stop being whatever I am if you ask me to.”
“You’re nuts, cop.”
“Not at all. I’ve got my opinion about what the shit going round in people’s heads is worth. Not a single drop of your tears, gorgeous.”
She was confused, and I was diving into her clear blue gaze with more enthusiasm than a thirty-something year-old guy ought to show towards a fifteen year-old girl on a public park bench. She avoided my eyes and wrapped her arms around one of her legs. This was not a trivial detail. For those legs I would have been capable of letting my Argentine dentist lecture me, putting my glass rubbish in the correct recycling bin, or even wearing a cellphone clipped to my waistband.
“Is that a compliment?” she asked.
“I don’t pay compliments. I declare my love or I get the hell out.”
For a moment it seemed like she was blushing, but it must have been a mirage. She untied her hair and observed me, her chin resting on her delicate fist.
“Today’s tie isn’t as nice as yesterday’s.”
“I’ll take it off if it bothers you.”
“Okay.”
I unknotted my tie, folded it and put it in the inside pocket of my jacket.
“Better now?”
“Yes. You’re not as old as I thought. You don’t have wrinkles round your neck.”
“I don’t have wrinkles anywhere. But I do have a few gray hairs.”
“They don’t really show.”
“I don’t mind if they show. The two most ridiculous things a man can do is use hair growth restorer and dye his gray hairs. Does your father dye his?”
“My father’s as bald as an egg.”
“Of course, I should have guessed. And what does your father do?”
“He’s an architect.”
“What about your mother?”
“My mother doesn’t do anything. She plays the piano and speaks French. I think that’s all she knows how to do.”
“Your mother has time to get bored, Rosana. You should always respect someone with time to get bored. That’s how people grow wise.”
Rosana shook her head.
“Not my mother.
Rosana had turned thoughtful.
“I get five thousand pesetas pocket money on Saturdays,” she suddenly confessed. “Do you think my dad’s an idiot too?”
Perhaps because I was feeling vulnerable and tender, I decided to be brutal, forgetting that the girl next to me was not yet sweet sixteen.
“Of course he is. There are women who have to give some stinking drunk a blow job to earn five thousand pesetas. This way you’ll never know the value of things.”
Rosana’s eyes shone.
“Was your father poor?”
“My father
is
poor, if by that you mean someone who has to work and then pay taxes on every last fucking peseta he earns. That’s what I think, anyway.”
“So you’re a socialist.”
“Who told you that?”
“My father says that poor people are socialists because socialists promise them that they’re going to take everything from those of us who aren’t poor.”
“Your father is really very confused.”
“What are you then?”
“I’m a Bolshevik,” I improvised.
“And what do Bolsheviks want?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
Rosana frowned.
“Try me. I’m not stupid. And I studied twentieth century history in eighth grade.”
“We Bolsheviks go back to the nineteenth century, not the twentieth. We want to shoot people like your father and then shoot poor people so they realize that we’re all crooks and no-one is worth saving.”
“You’re kidding. You’re laughing at me.”
“Of course I am. I’m a nobody, and I’ll stop being whatever I am if you ask me to.”
“You’re nuts, cop.”
“Not at all. I’ve got my opinion about what the shit going round in people’s heads is worth. Not a single drop of your tears, gorgeous.”
She was confused, and I was diving into her clear blue gaze with more enthusiasm than a thirty-something year-old guy ought to show towards a fifteen year-old girl on a public park bench. She avoided my eyes and wrapped her arms around one of her legs. This was not a trivial detail. For those legs I would have been capable of letting my Argentine dentist lecture me, putting my glass rubbish in the correct recycling bin, or even wearing a cellphone clipped to my waistband.
“Is that a compliment?” she asked.
“I don’t pay compliments. I declare my love or I get the hell out.”
For a moment it seemed like she was blushing, but it must have been a mirage. She untied her hair and observed me, her chin resting on her delicate fist.
“Today’s tie isn’t as nice as yesterday’s.”
“I’ll take it off if it bothers you.”
“Okay.”
I unknotted my tie, folded it and put it in the inside pocket of my jacket.
“Better now?”
“Yes. You’re not as old as I thought. You don’t have wrinkles round your neck.”
“I don’t have wrinkles anywhere. But I do have a few gray hairs.”
“They don’t really show.”
“I don’t mind if they show. The two most ridiculous things a man can do is use hair growth restorer and dye his gray hairs. Does your father dye his?”
“My father’s as bald as an egg.”
“Of course, I should have guessed. And what does your father do?”
“He’s an architect.”
“What about your mother?”
“My mother doesn’t do anything. She plays the piano and speaks French. I think that’s all she knows how to do.”
“Your mother has time to get bored, Rosana. You should always respect someone with time to get bored. That’s how people grow wise.”
Rosana shook her head.
“Not my mother.
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