Mario twenty-two years living on the sixth floor without elevator of his apartment in Gran de Gràcia at 200. Mario gets up at three in the afternoon, go to bed at five o'clock, drink two bottles of Viña del Mar cava a day, polished Ducados two separate packages-the first from 15:00 to 23:00, the second from 00:00 to 04:00 - cooking something fried. If the harvest of the terrace goes well, all day smoking weed. So much so that forgets what is going to search every time you open the fridge.
Mario is fifty-four and sixteen teeth. Still has hope that his daughter twelve may come to visit, and that your stomach ulcer follow as it is. Antonio and John, two fifties like him, visit him every Friday night. Enclosed in the living room, eat pizzas and desserts thawed aspire speed on a piece of marble. Then come the screams, the laughter, a poker game, a fight, the music blaring and sometimes vomit. Jordi Antonio and stay asleep in the room until Sunday night, unable to get off the eighty-odd steps that separate them from Gran de Gracia.
During the week, twelve hours to stay awake, Mario spends eight to watch their favorite shows on TV in the kitchen, evening gatherings, cooking Argiñano, realitishóus. The volume looks at top, and still has to come to hear better.
Mario receives a pension of four hundred euros because, they say, is not qualified to work. Depression, social ineptitude or something. The rest of its income is the give me the room that I rent next to the kitchen for a year and a half.
At night, from my room, I listen to the cries of Mario when he discusses on the phone with his ex-wife, or else the voice of Mercedes Mila, or the laughter of Jordan, or belching Antonio.
When I get tired at night and I prepare something for dinner, Mario told me about his day with the booming voice of grit and smell of sweat. I smile, I see food, I asked:
- What was your day?
And I tell my day. I do not know if I hear, I do not know if I care what you say, but always returns a bored smile and gives me a warm pat on the back.
When I get tired at night and I prepare something for dinner, Mario told me about his day with the booming voice of grit and smell of sweat. I smile, I see food, I asked:
- What was your day?
And I tell my day. I do not know if I hear, I do not know if I care what you say, but always returns a bored smile and gives me a warm pat on the back.
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