Divorce Is in the Air Read Online Free PDF

seemed content to feed off the surplus energy of another heart that had entered the world overflowing with vital juices. It was absurd that the powers above had bestowed a whole life on such a weak spirit. If you think about it, the house of our friendship was built from the materials supplied by my mother’s pushiness, Father Margarine’s idiosyncrasy, and a sport that favored the tall: all told, a shack of straw and reeds. How can you miss someone who’s been carried away on the wind of the years?
    And now we come to my second motive: when I gave Pedro my mobile number, I was so miserable I would’ve thrown myself into a grave if its diggers could guarantee me in writing a bit of human company. But don’t start gloating just yet. Aside from your ignominious departure, something else was weighing on me: my stupendous health was starting to fail.
    A fairly Siberian day had encroached on Barcelona’s climate. I was heading down Calle Muntaner, too furious to take shelter in a taxi. I’d just visited my mother, and if asking to borrow money once you’re over forty is already more debasing than at twenty (it’s harder to convince yourself the situation is temporary and things will soon get better), I can assure you it’s even worse when you’re given the runaround in reply. I’d found my mother livelier than usual, and the cause for her sudden euphoria—a newfound group of septuagenarian friends—should have made me happy. I was surprised, of course, but I didn’t waste my time inquiring about her new companions. I was too busy fuming over her refusal to advance me what I needed to avoid descending yet another rung down the proverbial ladder.
    “Let’s talk about it in two weeks. I’m sure I’ll have an answer for you by then.”
    I called my sister and got her voice mail, but it wouldn’t let me leave a single message; I called six times and was charged for each of them. I wasn’t wearing gloves or a scarf, and I went into one of those Pakistani or Brahmin shops that don’t pay taxes and will be the only kind of business to survive after the imminent crisis has devoured all the rest: the shops selling collectible stamps, the bookstores, tailors, and all the fine liquor stores. Who knows, maybe you ran off with a Syrian, but I’ll have to watch as the Eixample’s diverse commercial landscape simplifies into a bunch of yucca dispensaries, hotels, outlets, Chinese wholesale shops, and Internet cafés that smell like feet. I bought a big bag of chips—kettle-cooked, 2.35 euros—telling myself I needed the energy. I searched all my pockets, hoping to avoid breaking my fifty-euro note.
    The fabulous power of saturated fats propelled me home, which obviously is no longer the charming apartment in Diagonal Mar I can’t afford without you. Now I have a low-ceilinged matchbox stuck on top of a building with no elevator and no central heating, where I moved because the landlord (a friend Vicente met in rehab) agreed to let me pay the deposit of 1,200 euros over three months, which are up next week. Also because, like an idiot, I bought into the romance of the word “attic,” even though the place faces inward and the living room windows look onto an alley featuring trash cans and the fluorescent lights of the Adam sauna, whose main service you can well imagine.
    Calle Rocafort is half an hour from the beating heart of the Gayxample, and the common species around here is the old lady walking a repulsive dog that will start to lick your shoes and trouser leg if you don’t cross the street; even so, the Adam is packed to the gills every Friday. It can’t hope to attract the queer VIPs that flock to Barcelona from northern Europe looking for easy sex or streets where they can walk openly hand in hand. But the Adam has no competition for the closeted flamers from Sants and La Bordeta, from dramatic Creu Coberta or that strange neighborhood that opens up as the Gran Via breaks away from Paral-lel (a street that in