The days slipped through the fingers of his life, unable to clench his fist and start saving the minutes he wasted thinking “what had happened.”
The handwriting with which he wrote his days began to twist, tangle and become incomprehensible, so he felt the need to put a full stop, before the story, acquiring excessive autonomy, relegated him to a secondary role.
He was approaching that part of life in which each decision defines a path, provokes a future and builds a memory, and he could not wait to take the first step, leave the present behind and destroy the memories that prevented him from forgetting.
Sitting on the bed in front of the mirror in the closet in his room, he stared at his hands as if in an improvised exercise in palmistry, trying to read some sign, imagining how many objects, textures and skins they would still have to go through in his life.
He thought that many years later, when old age would fill his hands with wrinkles, he would look back to these years, convinced that all the uncertainty and waiting had made sense. They would seem ridiculous then, the doubts and worries that now haunted his head.
He looked ahead and in the reflection he thought he saw that sad old man, wrapped up in remorse for not knowing how to get minutes out of hours and hours out of days, for having let the years go by without deciding to take charge of his life.
But he was still young, young to fail miserably, to think disappointments were final, to surrender without exhausting all possibilities, and to perch on a single wish as if his happiness depended solely on getting it.
And so, when the time came, like every afternoon between seven thirty and eight to a quarter, and she appeared wrapped in her raincoat and camouflaged behind her sunglasses, he had already been in charge of forcing the necessary coincidences not to have dinner alone that night.