This is a short story. It’s not the usual story and does not enter the usual continuity of this blog. It’s not even a long story.
Meanwhile, I was thinking, “Why I feel so dissapointed each and everytime I look at that girl?”
I remember her. She was (she is) the hostess of the restaurant where I used (use) to eat. Each and everytime she looked at me, she smiled at me, she greeted me by name, and she showed me my seat. Yet each and everytime I felt dissapointed.
One day I decided to break the ice, the uncomfortable feeling I had when I looked at her beautiful eyes. I went to the restaurant; my heart beating like a jungle drum. She wasn’t there. I took my seat, and then I saw her. She was outside, kissing a fool. The I knew why I felt so dissapointed: because I knew, deep in my mind, I was not in her league.
So I had a single thing to do. I took my briefcase. I opened it. I saw what was inside. It was time to use it.
And I did it.
