There is a time of day, or rather night, in which, for how things can go, I invariably take the anxiety. Usually occurs around one, but on Saturday you get to the two and a half. It is the moment when Aldo, the owner of the cafe, dims the lights. The environment, the department lacks the neon lit dimly by the pulp and refrigerators for soft drinks, lose that vitality which fills systematically every day. At that moment I feel hunted, as if they wanted me out of the shadows. So I shake, I wear the coat and greeting. But it's hard to find a way home.
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