Pero no quiero centrarme en mi monotonía. Sino en la del vecino. Sí, un señor risueño cuando carga más de cinco tragos encima. Pero en sobriedad, de cara alargada, flaca y casi estreñida. Muy pocas veces he hablado con mi vecino sin que se caldeen mis ánimos, es una persona tosca, cascarrabia de unos 50 años, aproximadamente, que se engalana cuando le confirman la acidez de su personalidad, como si fuese realmente un halago.

No me cae mal el tipo, pero sí me choca su personalidad, prepotente, mandamás y al mismo tiempo trágico. Ninguna tragedia, ni de índole natural podría ganarle la batalla al drama personal de mi vecino. Ja, ja, ja, a veces da hasta gracia escucharle quejarse.

_{Imagen de Pixabay, usuario 652234//Image made in Pixabay, user 652234SOURCE}

Sin embargo, la mayoría de las veces me entristece su vida. Hoy, casualmente, al pasar por el pasillo se encontraba afuera -como de costumbre- cantando canciones de Rata Blanca, traté de hacerme invisible. Fui un fracaso. Me jaloneó para que me sentara a su lado en el banco del parlante. Y empezó -por enésima vez para mi memoria- a contarme que ahora SÍ sería millonario, porque ya tenía todo listo y estaba cuadrando el local de su negocio. Lo felicité diciéndole algunos buenos deseos para que me dejara tranquila. Fue en vano. Continuó la conversación entre tragos, canciones e historia.

Yo simplemente me quedaba embelesada y entristecida al mismo tiempo. Nunca le desearía el mal a mi vecino, admito que no es mi persona favorita. Pero ser testigo de su desgraciada rutina, ver cómo se hunde en sus cuentos, me enstristece mucho. Cada sorbo de ron es una patada a sus sueños.

Llevo más de 5 años conociéndolo, y aunque no es tan jovencito,de vez en cuando se le ve buena pinta. Basta que le caiga dinero en los bolsillos para beber hasta morir y matar la magia de su encanto. En ocasiones lo he visto tirado en la acera de la calle balbuceando nombres, gritando: ¡MARÍA! ¡Ven acá conchesumadr...!

_{Imagen de Pixabay, usuario mkal1808 | Image made in Pixabay, user mkal1808 | SOURCE}

Se ha quedado solo. Ya nadie lo visita. Y es que cuando toma, hace monólogos más intensos que cuando está en sus 5 sentidos. A la otra persona no le da chance de interactuar con él. Vive repitiendo el mismo cuento. El último amigo que lo visitó lo golpeó porque no dejó que hablara en toda la noche. ¡Ni los gatos se acercan a su puerta!

Sí, ya sé lo que estás pensando de mí, que soy TREMENDA chismosa. Me encantaría negarlo como algo absoluto, pero ni lo uno, ni lo otro. Soy simplemente una vecina que está al tanto de todo porque una debe conocer con quienes convive. Aunque no es de mi interés la vida de nadie, el vecino es demasiado escandaloso, sin que nadie le pregunte, sale a contar sus cosas.

Mi puerta siempre está cerrada, mi pecado es que coincida mi regreso a casa con su espectáculo ochentero en el pasillo. Nadie dice nada porque son cosas de "viejo" y es amigo del dueño del edificio.

Mi vecino comparte su dolor con el mundo. Sus ganas de adormecerse son tan grandes que es inevitable no verlo vomitado en la calle. Después de tres o hasta 7 días de encierro y vergüenza, sale como el ratón a pedir sal, azúcar, pan, o cualquier cosa que pueda comer o completar. Hay vecinos que solo lo ignoran. Yo cuando estoy de ánimos, salgo a conversar con él un rato.

Hoy, luego de 3 horas de agonía con la música, la saliva en mi ropa y los abrazos incómodos, fui a hacer la cena. El vecino se dio una cita de tragos desde las 3 pm. Hasta hace poco escuchaba el barullo. Me estaba echando una ducha cuando de forma insistente sonó mi puerta. Y dije dentro de mí: "Si ese viejo no me deja tranquila le empino la botella como tetero para que se desmaye".

Me equivoqué. Quien llamó a mi puerta era una jovencita que lloraba porque habían atropellado al vecino. Yacía en el pavimento como un muñeco al que le aplastaron los huesos. Al parecer fue por otra botella de ron, se agachó por una moneda y el auto lo fulminó.

Mi vecinó no cumplió sus sueños, no tuvo un romance bonito, no tuvo hijos, vivía en el pasado recordando su adolescencia y sus atributos de macho alfa. Le conocía más a él, que a mí misma. Ahora me quedo en soledad conmigo misma, arrepentida de mis últimas palabras hacia él. Agotada por el silencio del pasillo deseo que, donde quiera que esté, siga siendo feliz aunque sea con un sorbo de ron.

This story is exclusive for hive. I really like chronicles, writing about the people around me, the world, the events. So I'll debut with you with the following story, which I hope you enjoy and if you don't, let me know:

But I don't want to focus on my monotony. I want to focus on my neighbor's. Yes, a smiling gentleman when he has more than five drinks on him. But in sobriety, with an elongated face, skinny and almost constipated. Very few times I have spoken to my neighbor without my temper flaring up, he is a gruff, cantankerous person of about 50 years old, approximately, who gets flattered when the acidity of his personality is confirmed, as if it were really a compliment.

I don't dislike the guy, but I am shocked by his personality, overbearing, bossy and tragic at the same time. No tragedy, not even of a natural nature, could win the battle against my neighbor's personal drama. Ha, ha, ha, ha, sometimes it's even funny to hear him complain.

Most of the time, however, I am saddened by his life. Today, as I happened to pass him in the hallway outside - as usual - singing White Rat songs, I tried to make myself invisible. I was a failure. He pulled me to sit next to him on the speaker's bench. And he started -for the umpteenth time in my memory- to tell me that now he would be a millionaire, because he had everything ready and he was squaring the premises of his business. I congratulated him by telling him some good wishes so that he would leave me alone. It was in vain. The conversation continued between drinks, songs and history.

_{Imagen de Pixabay, usuario 652234 | Image made in Pixabay, user 652234 | SOURCE}

I was simply enraptured and saddened at the same time. I would never wish my neighbor ill, I admit he is not my favorite person. But witnessing his wretched routine, watching him sink into his tales, saddens me greatly. Every sip of rum is a kick to his dreams.

I've known him for more than 5 years, and although he's not that young, every now and then he looks good. All he has to do is drop money in his pockets to drink himself to death and kill the magic of his charm. Sometimes I've seen him lying on the sidewalk babbling names, shouting: MARIA! Come here conchesumadr...!

_{Imagen de Pixabay, usuario mkal1808 | Image made in Pixabay, user mkal1808 | SOURCE}

He has become lonely. Nobody visits him anymore. And the thing is that when he drinks, he makes more intense monologues than when he is in his 5 senses. He doesn't give the other person a chance to interact with him. He lives repeating the same story. The last friend who visited him beat him up because he wouldn't let him talk all night. Even cats won't come to his door!

Yes, I know what you're thinking about me, that I'm a TREMENDOUS gossip. I'd love to deny it as an absolute, but neither one, nor the other. I'm just a neighbor who is aware of everything because you have to know who you live with. Although I am not interested in anyone's life, the neighbor is too scandalous, without anyone asking him, he comes out to tell his things.

My door is always closed, my sin is that my return home coincides with his eighties show in the hallway. No one says anything because it's "old man" stuff and he's friends with the owner of the building.

My neighbor shares his pain with the world. His desire to doze off is so great that it is inevitable not to see him vomiting in the street. After three or even 7 days of confinement and embarrassment, he comes out like a mouse to ask for salt, sugar, bread, or anything he can eat or complete. There are neighbors who just ignore him. When I am in the mood, I go out to talk to him for a while.

Today, after 3 hours of agony with the music, spit on my clothes, and awkward hugs, I went to make dinner. The neighbor had a drinks date starting at 3 pm. Until recently I was listening to the hubbub. I was taking a shower when there was an insistent knock on my door. And I said inside me, "If that old man doesn't leave me alone I'll shove the bottle down his throat like a teapot so he'll pass out".

I was wrong. The knock at my door came from a young girl who was crying because her neighbor had been run over. He lay on the pavement like a dummy whose bones had been crushed. Apparently he went for another bottle of rum, ducked for a coin and was hit by the car.

My neighbor didn't fulfill his dreams, didn't have a nice romance, didn't have children, lived in the past remembering his adolescence and his alpha male attributes. I knew him more than I knew myself. Now I am alone with myself, regretting my last words to him. Exhausted by the silence of the hallway, I wish that wherever he is, he is still happy even with a sip of rum.