mal d'africa. French fries eaten cold, with oily hands, and touch his face. Patrick is a thin old man who does not know how it sometimes ends up having dinner at a tavern, with us. forty years has lived in Germany, worked in an automobile factory. are polite and do not curse, and I'd be more polite but just can not do it. I put my hands through my hair, neck sweat. I look at the wall with myopic eyes. I could watch anything except what? the air is too sticky, the legs fall asleep, his red-faced smiles. I can not hold his gaze on him. he said that afternoon in Porto Garibaldi boat out, I do not understand how it can curl cheeks like that, and forced vital hilarious and while I listen to absent, straight mouth, awkward standing near the fireplace. clothes at home. AC Milan strips that do not break anything, do not ever throw away. I want to leave. I say: I really do not think I want to hear these things. then I sit on the couch, fixed at random wood beads. I think he has understood, the cheeks are flattened and finally look normal, questioning and appropriate in the circumstances. I turned slightly and still pretend to watch television, but is turned. does not matter. my lips are trembling and I focus on the TV turned on what I see. Strip the news. when I am certain he is about to start crying I get up, I go walking slowly, trying not to get too much attention. I leave the tavern, up the stairs and breath. his hands still in his face. mal d'africa.
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