She used to smoke a lot. More than 20 cigarettes per day. Tough she left them unfinished, leaving a good one fourth on the ashtray on the exterior windowsill of her bedroom.
She quit the day she noticed something weird on her left hand. A knob near her wrist, a swollen portion of a vein, chubby to the point that she could not help touching it.
Her mom always screamed at the phone.
“You know, I can hear you anyway” she told her.
“What?” the mom shouted as a reply.
“Whatever. So, what did you want to tell me?”
“You should call your sister”
“What for?” she crossed her legs on the grey sofa, ready to listen boring stuff.
“She can give you an advice”
“I don’t need any. I know ending the relationship is the best thing I can do now”
“Think it twice. He is a really nice guy”
The girl rolled her eyes. Never as before she was convinced that her best adviser was no adviser.
The young waitress was missing since a couple of minutes. The terrace was empty enough for her to not come back for the following 5 minutes or so.
He cleared the corners of his mouth, still slightly stained from the beer-based lamb stew and the curry-flavored vegetables, he rinsed his palate with the last sip of stout and then he sneakily left the restaurant from the back terrace – the day was bright and he could use his dark sunglasses, as well to disguise himself until he reached a fair distance from the restaurant.
No salvation, for nobody. Not even the cute Yorkshire terrier who accompanied the little blonde girl in the pink dress, lovely tailored by her grandma, who in turn could not help but screaming at the sight of the gigantic, merciless, yellow and green truck, which was brutally slaughtering whatever being or object was on his road – the police station, John Pieter’s fine garden, the school where the little blonde girl used to study.
Ben was having indeed a lot of fun with the new truck his parents got it for Christmas, tough it was slightly oversized for the village he used to play with.
“Ecché disce Luisa?”
“Ecché voi che disce, che dovemo da ‘ccide ‘a pora bbestia e magnassela”
“Ma mica é bbona pe’ magnalla, manco er brodo ce fai”
“E mica se la potemo tirà en fronte, poi ar massimo la damo da magnà ai cani”
Peppino nodded, tough not so convinced, and continued ploughing the pumpkin field.
Late Wednesday dinner, old Italian music and Chilean wine, the dough curtains were hung on ropes in between the shutters, fresh homemade pasta to be served with parmesan and nuts sauce.
He saw the three digits on the white label – without counting the decimals -, it was slightly less of what he just withdrew from the ATM, the lack of sound in his new lonely apartment was more important than his miniaturized bank account, he grabbed the package and went to the till.