they came. late, but anyway. i thought i’d already been given the gift of the magi that night that i lost the key to my spanish boyfriend’s heart on the floor of that gay disco in chueca, that night that I went to that disco to show him that i was available to unlock it, and the same night that my spanish boyfriend stayed home to show that he could sit and read quietly despite the party. and the plot lines would diverge if i were to suggest that the key might have been stolen (although maybe that’s just the modern twist), or maybe not, because my sad, ironic gift would have been offered up nonetheless. but that mamma bear and her family standing on the corner near the star café in the small hours of the thirty-first were a measure of hope. (that is, they hoped: “and my what big balls you have, my dear.”) and, besides: whatever, i didn’t really believe in those silly clowns with their cakes and their candies. but, as the footballers’ agent i ran into again by chance so appropriately noted, we’re all catholic around here, believe it or not (because your mother and your uncle and your grandfather do). and when in spain, do like the romans. i probably also got some credit for the international publicity i gave them, and so it is that they brought me michel houellebecq, flannery o’connor and roberto bolaño (in the elegant shadow of lorin stein) to keep me company for the month of austerity. (resolution: frugality, or stop doing the books).
and all of a sudden mamma started to dance. she said it had something to do with the moon.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment