He considered his situation for a moment, I didn’t have much time to think, to weigh his cowardice. Lips took the nearly empty whisky as a staged reflection glass many times, one way to hide among many other a that was used. He dared to look askance, over the glass that it distorting everything; the woman was still there, smiling. Roberto Valdivia considered same a loser, one of those gray types who are lucky to have reached fifty without having received too many blows. It is true that I had never risked anything. He looked after meals, not smoked, he walked exactly thirty-eight blocks to work every morning, travel that repeated conversely afternoon regardless of the weather or the season, and that had not changed in the last twenty-seven years. He always wore a discreet dark blue suit, white shirt and tie at the tone, which possessed several games; I had thus learned to worry about boredom and the vagaries of fashion, art that was beyond of their understanding and that abhorred. He had never married, and the closest thing to a girlfriend who had was a neighbor of adolescence, who had taught him the rudiments of physical love, and that had left him crying and full of bitterness to go with a guy of inevitably hair and smile toothpaste that drove a red Dodge Coronado commercial, and who at that time was the feeling of the neighborhood.
You could say that the only vice that had was whisky on Thursdays at the bar of the Urquiza Street. The place he liked because he was quiet and anonymous, and nobody paid attention. He sat at a table in the background with a double measure of Blenders with ice, preferably in a corner, where could see little movement of the establishment for a couple of hours, before returning to his two room apartment to watch a little television from the bed.