On your deathbed, it is said,
You will regret not the things you did,
But those you didn’t do.
Friday afternoon, while most of you healthy people were hurrying home from work or school, or visiting your favorite restaurants or cafes or shops, in short, while you were enjoying the comforts of your mostly urban existence, the asthenic boy who writes these lines had to lie flat upon a medical couch while a short and slim lady-hematologist about 50 years old (not at all bad looking, if I may add) pressed her fingers into his groin or thereabout, much to his dismay.
‘Do you have a girlfriend?’ she asked.
‘I am a bachelor,’ I excused myself.
‘I’m serious,’ she said, pushing her fingers more deeply. ‘Have you had unprotected sex?’
The other day, while traversing a zebra crossing at a leisurely pace, a car almost ran over me.
‘Come on boyo, hurry up, will you? This isn’t a park!’ shouted the driver.
Indeed! My foot had barely touched the pavement when the car vroom-vroomed, rushing past me at great speed, brushing my back ever so slightly with its rearview mirror. Picture me, short and frail as I am, coughing on the pavement in the cloud of exhaust smoke he left behind, watching the hectic rush of cars racing down the boulevard, bemoaning the hastiness of our beloved century.
‘Where are all these people rushing to?’ I wondered, taking off my hat and scratching my head. ‘To death?’