The progressive lady fastens her seatbelt and gives the address to the taxi driver. He smiles and listens, enriched, to the friend who speaks through the radio. "Hey! I saw a woman with a rose, and I thought, children...!" He talks to everyone else about Valentine's Day. The professor smiles, hearing him, because, if she were to say, she would say that she celebrates Sant Jordi. But she celebrates nothing. She finds it funny to hear this man, through the radio, and what he drives, which makes her mad.
"I still have to go buy my wife's thing!" he exclaims to the driver. "I don't know if a coffee maker, which she wants, or a massage device, which I would steal!"
The progressive lady smiles. What a lovely everyday thing, to think that this taxi driver will give someone a massage machine that he will want to keep. How much joy, how much normality. She, who is the intelligent woman, the one who was, in theory, chosen by the brain (the body too, of course) and who has a husband as intelligent as her, finds herself envious of the taxi driver. That joy, that normality. Perhaps she would like, she thinks, less brain and more body, less head and more heart.
"I'll stay here, on the corner," she says to the driver. And he, smiling, happy because today he will surely, perhaps, have sex after the gift, wishes her a good day. She will sleep in the matrimonial bed, king size so as not to get in the way, without touching her husband's foot. How much he envies the progressive lady for so much regularity, so much joy, so much normality. This taxi driver will arrive home and give a brief kiss on the woman's lips. She has spent centuries without contact with the man who made her fall in love.
