There are many days when you play the secret game. At one time or another, you'd leave your body and detach yourself to find another. You look at a couple in a celebrity magazine, at the hairdresser's. They stroll through the city with a cup of coffee in hand, ahead of their time, yes, but not going anywhere. They seem happy, with that kind of happiness that emanates from... outfitsUrban types (hat, sneakers, baggy clothes) who have maids. They seem to be laughing at them. On the street? Without a cell phone? And, well, for just a few hours, you'd want to put on in the shoes of her.
Or talking to the couple of friends who have come to see you and who treat each other with such politeness. You would put yourself in her shoes for a while. Today, at the market, the fruit vendor was telling a recipe for a spring garlic and tuna omelet. The fruit seller said:She's my Arguiñana!"And she laughed and added: 'Say something bad, too!' And he pretended not to, not to; that he didn't know any. There I wanted to be the fruit seller, who was cold at the stall, who had gotten up maybe at five, but who laughed the whole time. Fleeting, to be someone else—today, the fruit seller—you also think, furiously, of who you wouldn't want to be under any circumstances. Even if that someone has power, beauty, a house where they could drop dead."lessYou'd like to be Maribel Vilaplana. And you also think that Maribel Vilaplana would trade everything to be the fruit seller.
