Everyday Life

The apartment always smelled of dampness. Strong, lingering. Sometimes it mingled with the scent of the house cat, the smell of old clothes, or the bleach used for cleaning; if Gabriel opened the windows, the smog from cars and trucks drifted in to make it even worse.

It was something more persistent, as if the walls held onto stale air that never quite left. His mission for that year, 2005, was to move to a new apartment. He dreamed of moving to a better neighborhood, with parks for running, where that damp smell didn't exist. Where he wouldn't have to look after his obnoxious father and that stinking animal.

In the morning, around 7:00 a.m., Pedro, Gabriel’s father, was already awake. He didn't need an alarm clock, but the radio always played the news at that hour. 

“Rodrigo Pérez has been detained at the Mexico City Airport…” the radio announced. Pedro barely listened. He always dressed in the same order: first shirt, vest, trousers, socks, and finally his shoes.

“He was attempting to forcibly take three…” silence. He switched off the radio. It wasn't a good way to start the day. He had no interest in the lives of those who try to flee with innocent people.

He heard the footsteps of his son, Gabriel, who was walking in a hurry. Despite it being Sunday, he was already up, which was strange. But even stranger was that he could maintain a relationship with that girl with the pretty hair.

Pedro went out to the kitchen to make some coffee. Three, four, five spoonfuls of sugar in his cup, and two of coffee that put on the filter. He watched the kettle intently, waiting patiently. Perhaps just with a look he could make the flame of the ven will heat the water faster.

“Did you take your insulin, dad?” Gabriel asked. Pedro turned to look at him, eyes wide open.

“I don’t need it,” his father replied. “All of this is unacceptable. You’ll see that I’m right.”

Gabriel looked at the cup waiting for the hot water. He didn't have time for fights, or for begging him to take his insulin. If the old man wanted to die, all the better. It made everything easier for him.

Breakfast was simple, always the same: a couple of eggs, coffee with sugar, and a a sweet bread. That, or toast with La Lechera condensed milk. For Gabriel, it was always a sandwich with ham, Oaxaca or Chihuahua cheese, and extra mustard. A chamomile tea and nothing else. They didn't talk. They never did. Before sitting down, Pedro fed Angora, the white cat that had once belonged to his wife.

Pedro took the newspaper. The news continued: the Pope’s health, the soccer scores, something about the president of this or that country negotiating with another president, prime minister, or something like that. The pre-campaigns for the mexican presidential elections…

But reading the paper was much better than looking at each other, talking, or doing whatever a father does with his adult son. His eyes started hurting again. He saw the blurry letters in the newspaper. He hated it, he was losing the only activity she enjoyed. But... stupid insulin…

“Alright, I’m leaving,” Gabriel said, standing up from the table. He went to find his car keys.

“Clear your plates,” Pedro ordered with authority.

He wasn't heard. Angora climbed onto the table, looking for something to eat—something Gabriel might have left on the plate.

“I don’t have time,” Gabriel complained while checking if he had everything for his outing. “I’m sure you can take mine to the sink too.”

Gabriel left, and the wind caused the door to slam shut with a hideous bang. Pedro watched Angora licking the plate and let him continue. He tried to keep reading, but his vision blurred again. He stood up to drink some water. One, two, three glasses, but it wouldn't subside.

He cursed. Where was that damned insulin? He heard Angora’s meow—insistent, deep, as if the cat wanted him to see something. But how could he see with eyes that refused to focus, to see clearly what was right in front of him?

Angora persisted. And thanks to the constant meowing, he managed to reach the spot where the cat was. He sat down, finally getting the insulin to work. He closed his eyes and rested while the cat purred proudly. One more day to be with his favorite person.

Gabriel arrived at the meeting point where Liliana was waiting. He saw her well-dressed, in pants that made her legs look longer, a pink t-shirt, and a simple hairstyle where you could tell she had curled it.

“What are your plans for today?” she asked Gabriel as she got into the car and changed the radio to a different station. She began to move to the rhythm of the cumbia being broadcast. She turned up the volume.

“Well, I plan to go to the Anthropology Museum. And after that, we can go to a jazz concert nearby. We’ll end the day at the cinema.”

The woman made a face of annoyance, then, after thinking it over, she made a few more faces, showing she hadn't liked the "little joke." Gabriel tried to lighten the moment with a nervous laugh.

“Liliana, don’t take it seriously, it was just a joke,” Gabriel explained calmly. “There’s an activity nearby. Or we could go to the Alameda; there’s a flea market for knick-knacks, and we can take a walk from there. I’m sure there are things going on at the Zócalo.”

“A flea market for knick-knacks?” Liliana asked curiously.

“If I’m lucky, the old man will be gone before summer. He didn't take his insulin today. If he manages to go meet Saint Peter soon we can finally move out.”

Liliana smiled maliciously. She hated that old man. Always going to the bathroom every few minutes; his smell made her want to vomit, and if she tried to take him for a walk or an outing, it was nothing but complaints.

With a better mood, Liliana kept dancing to the music on the radio. But her patience soon reached its limit when they couldn't find a parking spot. The combination of Sunday and the Holy Week break was not something she found exciting.

She hated children. She hated that they were on vacation because they ruined anything. Her work became more taxing, and, at the end of the day she would go home with a headache.