Ah...Rose's chest! This could be an article about a female pirate's hidden treasure trunk or a pin-colored cabinet or, maybe, about somebody's bosom. I chose that title to attract the attention of some perverted minds that may detect some explicit explanation of a ladies' anatomy.
Since I have excited your curiosity now, you might as well keep traveling through the tunnel of reading and may be when you reach the end of that tunnel you could be illuminated with the real topic of this essay. This will not, I confess, make you more intellectual; it will just help you kill some time which, you will agree, the way you waste it sometimes, it may be worth more dead than alive.
Rose was the name of my first girl friend. And what the heck is the importance of that, you may ask. None whatsoever. She could have been named Petronila or Heliodora and it would have made no difference. But we are now in the middle of the story and I don't want you to lose the tiniest detail. I promise you that it will get interesting.
Okay, one languid afternoon, one of those when the sun refuses to go to sleep afraid of the darkness (let's start this paragraph again; it's coming out very romantic). Okay, one languid afternoon, one of those when the sun refuses to go to sleep afraid of the darkness, I was visiting my girlfriend's house who you will remember, as I previously introduced her to you, was named Rose. My future mother-in-law, who didn't believe in silly traditions and was very friendly with me, just as I was sitting down served me a glass of ice tea (which resembled my girlfriend's attitude) and a small plate of hot popcorn (contrary to her disposition).
I, being so stubborn, did things backwards and first drank the tea and then ate some popcorn that got stuck, as usual, between my teeth. I was a little bore then (as you may be now) so I tried to take advantage of the opportunity, making some advances toward Rose (I promised that this would get better, didn't I?) But Rose adamantly refused to kiss me, complaining about the pieces of popcorn in my mouth. I think that it was probably because of the chilly drink. The problem is that, with the struggle, the popcorn plate fell down on my feet and spread all over the floor. Rose rose (this is not a redundancy) very upset and went looking for a broom and started to sweep them silently, so not to wake up her mother that was dozing in front of the TV, dreaming, I'm sure, about her charming future son-in-law.
And here is the secret of the title. Rose looked like an opera singer. No, she couldn't keep a tune, but she had a formidable chest. The spectacle of Rose, leaning in front of me picking up the popcorn, was a temptation that my anxious hands could not resist and advanced, like hungry stray cats, over those mouthwatering appetizers.
Rose suffered an instant of incertitude and stayed inert for a moment, not knowing if she should sigh, scream or faint. And opted for the most logical thing for her. She raised the broom and struck me with it in the middle of my forehead.
Her mother awoke in a flash and grabbed the deadly weapon from her, saving my life. And before Rose could have another bellicose tantrum, I did what was obvious of a rejected boy friend: I broke up with her!
Next day, the whole town knew about Rose's outburst. And I was proudly showing my big bump, happily explaining: This bump was caused by some mouthwatering...popcorn!
Since I have excited your curiosity now, you might as well keep traveling through the tunnel of reading and may be when you reach the end of that tunnel you could be illuminated with the real topic of this essay. This will not, I confess, make you more intellectual; it will just help you kill some time which, you will agree, the way you waste it sometimes, it may be worth more dead than alive.
Rose was the name of my first girl friend. And what the heck is the importance of that, you may ask. None whatsoever. She could have been named Petronila or Heliodora and it would have made no difference. But we are now in the middle of the story and I don't want you to lose the tiniest detail. I promise you that it will get interesting.
Okay, one languid afternoon, one of those when the sun refuses to go to sleep afraid of the darkness (let's start this paragraph again; it's coming out very romantic). Okay, one languid afternoon, one of those when the sun refuses to go to sleep afraid of the darkness, I was visiting my girlfriend's house who you will remember, as I previously introduced her to you, was named Rose. My future mother-in-law, who didn't believe in silly traditions and was very friendly with me, just as I was sitting down served me a glass of ice tea (which resembled my girlfriend's attitude) and a small plate of hot popcorn (contrary to her disposition).
I, being so stubborn, did things backwards and first drank the tea and then ate some popcorn that got stuck, as usual, between my teeth. I was a little bore then (as you may be now) so I tried to take advantage of the opportunity, making some advances toward Rose (I promised that this would get better, didn't I?) But Rose adamantly refused to kiss me, complaining about the pieces of popcorn in my mouth. I think that it was probably because of the chilly drink. The problem is that, with the struggle, the popcorn plate fell down on my feet and spread all over the floor. Rose rose (this is not a redundancy) very upset and went looking for a broom and started to sweep them silently, so not to wake up her mother that was dozing in front of the TV, dreaming, I'm sure, about her charming future son-in-law.
And here is the secret of the title. Rose looked like an opera singer. No, she couldn't keep a tune, but she had a formidable chest. The spectacle of Rose, leaning in front of me picking up the popcorn, was a temptation that my anxious hands could not resist and advanced, like hungry stray cats, over those mouthwatering appetizers.
Rose suffered an instant of incertitude and stayed inert for a moment, not knowing if she should sigh, scream or faint. And opted for the most logical thing for her. She raised the broom and struck me with it in the middle of my forehead.
Her mother awoke in a flash and grabbed the deadly weapon from her, saving my life. And before Rose could have another bellicose tantrum, I did what was obvious of a rejected boy friend: I broke up with her!
Next day, the whole town knew about Rose's outburst. And I was proudly showing my big bump, happily explaining: This bump was caused by some mouthwatering...popcorn!
This is an excerpt (translated frrom Spanish) of my book "PARA MATAR EL TIEMPO". See details about this and other books at alvarcorp@msn.com.
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