(This is a serial novel. Read it from the beginning by clicking here)
I went into the office beaming like a canary in the mine, immediately encountering a musician with the irrepressible desire to talk despite his mouth full of blueberry muffins.
Me: Not good news Cris, you know I'm allergic, and TI are all those outbursts
Chris: (spitting crumbs semimasticate) Bruising. There are bruises. We alter and outbursts on me.
Me: So, news?
Chris: Poor. Taking Clara
Me: In the sky?
Chris: I doubt it, although it certainly is still a virgin.
Me: Yeah, it's affectionate his astrological sign, have it since she was little
Chris: I also do my own, but gladly would change
Me: What do you have?
Chris: A cancer. At the terminal stage. You know, I was born in the last days. There were just lacked a lion.
I: The terminal you also play in Serie A?
Chris: What?
Me: No I say, is sobering. Before the violence from stadiums, and now the cancer. It really is a sick sport.
Chris: Sometimes I suspect you're just an idiot.
Me: Then I open my mouth and I'll give you final confirmation.
Chris: See you later for a coffee?
Me: If I do not have glaucoma in the next two hours, I'll see. Good luck.
Chris: Take your pills, cynical bastard.
I love Cris. Manages to be more insensitive to me, my beats its vileness. They are 1 and 85, he barely exceeds one meter and seventy. With a running start. And the trampoline. In Fosbury.
I'm still thinking how the crisis seems Gorge anatomically designed to accommodate its muffins, whole, when she appears. Me in front of him. In the sense that it launches as Toldo during a parade. A parade with majorettes and floats. Toldo loses his head on occasion. The beheadings, for example.
She raises her head. Puts it back on the ground, my head is a man of 87 kilos rather touchy. Here it is.
Clara ...
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