After leaving the courts—that modern cathedral where the citizen atones for bureaucratic obligations—I stopped at a café. As I approached the counter, the young barista, slim, alert, wearing a black cap, asked me to wait while she finished a previous order. I thanked her and sat in front of the bar, following the ritual of waiting my turn.
It was then that he entered.
He didn't walk in, he burst in, like someone who has never stood in line in his life. He wore a light gray jacket, an unbuttoned white jersey, comfortable pants, and a carefully rebellious gray mane. Under his thick black eyebrows, his blue eyes seemed to demand privilege. A black mustache, in the style of Mauricio Garcés, completed the character: an autumnal heartthrob from another time, convinced that life is meant to please him.
