The Friend of the Last Great Magnate(2)

You take another sip – where did you buy it? – you ask me.

– I always request it, you know I don’t like shopping – you raise your left eyebrow and smile mischievously, all over your face is drawn a great “What a great snob you are”.

 – Don’t tell me anything, you hate doing housework. – I argue

– Yes well, we both know that hiring someone to do it at this age is a necessity as much as a whim. – You reply back.

– Just like asking them to do the shopping for you – I say, lifting the plates and cups from the table – I’m old, it could hurt me – it amuses me a little to think how my old age is a useful argument from time to time. You look at me funny – You’ve been requesting your groceries since you were 30 years old – Well, in those days I had better things to do – “Which I would continue to do if I were less afraid of having a heart attack in the middle of an orgasm”.

You roll your eyes and any discussion that could have started is nullified. Time has taught you to argue and win with just a gesture on your face. I still feel old. Old and abstemious. My God, I want to die more than ever.

Once in the kitchen, I put the dishes in the sink and start cleaning, you lean on the table – Don’t you have people who wash your dishes? – you question with your characteristic tone – Yes, but I like to enjoy small things – I reply with mine – Cynical – you shake your head, and you look at me affectionately. Those big eyes stick into me like they always have, and I don’t know what to think. You still make me nervous. You are small and petite.

Your body retains its wide hips, your hair is short, and you have a turtle-neck red wine jumper that makes you look particularly radiant. You are a sharp, nosy, and adorable lady. I remember the old pink nightgown that you used when you felt depressed, the classic onion hairstyle that revealed the blue tips that you liked to paint yourself so much, your sometimes washed face, and that absolute refusal to exercise and quit smoking that would change over time. I remember occurrences and forgetfulness, which have only been improving.

You approach me, and you stand next to me, You take off your ring, take a wipe and dry yourself – let me help you psycho-rigid – I smile and look at the ring on the table. His ring. I might have known you longer than him, but he has loved you better that I ever could.

That old and distant parenthesis comes to me during which you wanted to love me and I did not let you enter. The heaviness of my body, recognizing me as the product of your tears, you’re telling me that we will never meet again. My amputated spirit and both of us dealing for a while with our loneliness.