To young Mark. Always with one hand ocuppied. Children of twenty-eight try to tell me what is a good cigar and what isn’t. Me, who never learned to smoke, but always smoked; me, who came into the world asking for a light. Me, who since learning to walk never stumbled. Me, who never ran after a bus but always arrived everywhere on time. Me, who when asked by a waitress about the kind of beer I would prefer— sweet, sour, toasted, or fruity—always responded: cold. Me, who began going out when I was seven. Me, who has lived four hundred and fifty-six weekends without throwing up once. Me, who stole my parents’ condoms right before my last brother was conceived. Me, who came from the womb dancing and when the nurses left the room, lit a ciggy. --- Niños de veintiocho años, pretenden enseñarme lo que es un buen habano. A mí, que nunca aprendí a fumar, pero siempre fumé; a mí, que vine al mundo pidiendo fuego. A mí, que desde que sé caminar jamás tropecé. A mí, que jamás c...
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