There is El Boncalo, Platero. It is too late now to turn around without insulting him.
Look, that eternal hand-rolled cigarette is dangling from his lower lip again. It just smells awful.
Whenever I see him, I think of the time when I was a young man and thought I could impress the girls coming out of the sewing workshop in Calle de la Escula by lighting a cigarette with an American lighter, just like a movie star.
What a fool I was back then, Platero.
Frankly, I don't miss smoking, much like some other things aging makes superfluous.
Apparently.
Author Notes: Hervé (°1968 – Ronse, Belgium) started writing short stories whilst recovering from a sports injury and he hasn’t stopped since. Generally he writes them hatless and barefooted. Illustration by Sylvie Castelin
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Belgium • 56 years old