It was taking me a Campari in the Gallery Vittorio Emanuele in the Piazza del Duomo when I approached a journalist of curly blonde hair and disturbing smile. Called sea, storm surge or tsunami, depending on the alchemists of the alley back, he warned cryptic display mode. It was not blond, but redhead. Dangerously redhead. He sat down beside me.
Not interested in football. I only knew that all kick required a conjunction spatio-temporal with the ball and, however much that repeat, never it would likewise. Of course, it was unaware who was Mourinho, though it associated the name with these beings of Galician mythology called mouros that were dedicated to the extraction of gold. Digo Que Te perhaps not it extrano misguided. He swung a ball point pen, as if it were to start an interview. But he asked any question. It was limited to scrutinize me as I watched her she reflected on the Moon of a showcase of handbags and Louis Vuitton suitcases.