He was a former student of acting and former football player, I guess he was a quarterback. He is now a reknown translator of Shakespeare and other plays into Spanish. He lives alone in a two story house almost empty of furniture. His room is cold, his house is cold, he is cold. Cynical. Defensive. Hurt. Lonely.
He has suffered, true, but he is also arrogant. He has many achievements, true, but he also wants to have a good laugh.
He always wears his black rimmed spectacles in spite of the new comodities of contacts. He might love the effect of them framing his naked grape green eyes. He dresses in jeans, sneakers and sweats, usually covered with a suede jacket in winter. I always seem to meet him in winter. Somehow destiny does not allow us to meet in warmer days. Maybe those are the days he is not lonely. Maybe he is not lonely but he seems to me because he is always between lovers when we meet. Maybe he seems lonely because I am lonely and I see in himself what I refuse to see in myself. Maybe he isn't even lonely, maybe it's all in my imagination.
No comments:
Post a Comment