Falete hates me

Falete hates me again. I’m surprised. As if that hadn’t happened every day since I used my phone as an alarm clock and I haven’t been able to turn it off the first time.

I drag my feet, and with them the rest of my body, to the kitchen. I make coffee.

I open the app and tune in to the radio to listen to it while I shower, while I dry off, while I get dressed, while I fill my backpack with things that, for the most part, I won’t need.

I put on my headphones and leave the house listening to the news.

I enter Mibarde siempre saying good morning (or rather, mumbling something similar). I sit at my table, I always sit at the same one, and I start taking things out of my backpack. I won’t need the vast majority of them.

A latte has materialized next to my glasses case up close. I’m almost sure it was prepared and placed there by my favorite waiter without me asking. Just as I go to take the first drink, my phone rings. It’s my friend B. We discussed an opinion column by our least favorite columnist. We laugh.

I tear out the article that I have to deliver today, I look on my phone for the voice notes that I sent to myself so I don’t forget anything. I hate listening to myself, so I go through them faster to finish faster: I look like a Smurf.

I call actress C’s representative. I talk to her (the actress, not the representative) about the seven deadly sins. It’s not an eccentricity of mine, it’s for the interview on the back page on Wednesdays. She is in Madrid and I am in a small town in the Tramuntana, but she is so nice that it could seem like we are old friends and we are having drinks in Santa Ana, talking about our things.

An unknown phone calls. I don’t take it. Call again. I take it. It’s a messenger to tell me that he brings me a package and that I’m not at home. The first I didn’t know, the second I did. I tell him to come to the bar.

A messenger (I know this from his uniform) enters the bar and gives a package to the waiter at the bar, telling him it’s for me. The waiter signs and brings it to my table. He is my favorite waiter, the one who a while ago prepared and placed a latte on my table, just the way I like it, without me asking but knowing that I wanted it.

It’s time for my third and final latte. If I take more, I become unbearable; If I drink less… I don’t know what happens if I drink less because I have never taken less. I’ll try it tomorrow.

I remember that I have to get tickets to fly to Madrid in five days. I open the company’s app, buy them, check-in. I send a WhatsApp to myself to remind me what time I have to be at the airport and what day.

My neighbor calls to ask me when we get the pumpkin pie coffee I bought for both of us. I didn’t buy it. I tell him that in three days. I send a message to order, this time, the pumpkin pie coffee. I order three packages, I provide my address, I pay. It will arrive in three days. Good!

Without me saying anything, and while I continue working, my favorite waiter takes my empty cup away, leaving a third in its place. I love him very much. I take a photo of it. I edit it with hearts. I send it to you. He laughs behind the bar. I laugh at my table.

I start putting all the things, most of which I haven’t needed, into my backpack. I put on my pen, I approach the bar, I can’t find my wallet. I remember exactly where in my house I left it. Payment with mobile. Thank you, sir, for this invention.

My mother calls just as I’m at the front door, rummaging through my backpack and trying to find my keys. I hang up on him, although I know that I risk the inheritance and some reproach when I least expect it. I keep searching. I can’t find them. I keep searching. I can’t find them. I keep searching. I can’t find them. I call my friend O. who has a copy. He’s at his house, I’m going to his house.

I finally enter mine with my friend’s keys. I see my keys as soon as I enter, on the table, along with four coins, a hair tie, and two erasers. I take a photo of them and send it to O. He answers me with an emoticon that covers his face with his hands, two with a crooked smile and an old film camera. Why are you sending me an old film camera? I ask him why he is sending me an old film camera, he tells me it’s a hug. I make an appointment with the ophthalmologist with my cell phone, I have just self-diagnosed presbyopia: I keep seeing an old film camera and I need a second opinion.

After opening the refrigerator and pantry three times and not seeing anything I want, I call the only restaurant that delivers food to this town. He is a Thai. I don’t care. I order rolls, a curry and tom yum goong, which I don’t know what it is and I’ll end up leaving it without trying as soon as I discover that it’s a soup that smells spicy like hell.

I feel like a nap. I set an alarm. Falete will hate me in exactly thirty minutes, not one more and not one less, hoping that not even dead will I be calm.

Indeed, Falete wishes that, after he dies, there will be no place for me. I prepare an infusion, I don’t drink it.

My mother calls. I don’t know whether to pick it up or throw the phone far away and tell my sister to tell her that it was stolen from me. I take it. I put the speaker on while he talks and I put on a washing machine.

I manage to hang up while faking interference. I call my friend T. to tell her that I will arrive in Madrid in five days, after lunch. He tells me he will come pick me up by car. I give you a screenshot with the time and a gif of a blonde girl blowing kisses. She sends me a sticker of Jason Momoa making a heart with his fingers, I send her a sticker of myself raising one leg, she sends me a sticker of her giving me a kiss. We stop.

The weather is good. I decide to write in the garden. Right where I want to stand, where the sun shines, the Wi-Fi doesn’t reach. Activate the portable hotspot on the phone. I transcribe the recording of the interview with Clara Lago.

The phone rings. Unknown number. It turns out to be a messenger, another one, who has been ringing the doorbell for a while. What if I’m not there, he says. I tell him that I am as I enter the house, I approach the door, I open it. It’s a book. I remember that I forgot the other package in Mibarde siempre. I send them a WhatsApp asking and they answer yes, it is there. Tomorrow I will pick it up.

I receive a sms. Only my friend J. and my friend R. send me SMS because they don’t have WhatsApp. It’s R. It just says “I have gossip.” I call him. Yes, he has gossip.

I go out to the garden and there is no longer any sun. I don’t feel like writing here anymore. I go up to the studio. My boss calls, I ask him if I broke something.

I haven’t broken anything, but tomorrow I’m going to Barcelona. I get a ticket from the app for tomorrow at eleven. I’ll check in now and send him a message asking for a raise. He sends me a HAHAHAHAHA in capital letters. I interpret it as a negative.

I’m in the supermarket when my Opinion colleague tells me that they haven’t received my column yet. I go into my email from the phone and forward it. I confirm that this time they have received it with a message. Just at that moment, my six-year-old nephew calls me with his mother’s phone to tell me that he really wants to see me. Before paying for the potatoes, eggs and chocolate nougat, I took out a train ticket to go to Valencia from Barcelona instead of returning home.

I had omelette for dinner. It wasn’t my best omelet.

I wake up on the couch with a cat on me and the TV playing an unbearable series. I can’t find the remote, so I turn it off with my cell phone. I crawl into bed and put on a murder podcast on my phone to fall asleep again.

Falete hates me.