Chapter One

-Damn of a storm…

He finally got where he desired. Belinda’s. Although the place’s inner decoration didn’t correspond with its name, he loved it. Everyone thought that “Belinda” would certainly have a heart-attack when she visited “her” coffee shop; but, somehow, it was almost full. Almost everyday. This guy cleared his way through people, tables and potted plants, reached the bar, lifted a hand and said:

-Same as always, Ralph.

He was a good guy. I mean, Ralph. But horrible as a waiter. He spent too much time asking and insufficient time serving. But he tried to fix that, and to improve. Five minutes later, Ralph dropped a cup of tea in front of our wet guy, and picked the few coins he left, which knew were exactly 0,75. Ralph half-heard a

-Thanks, boy.

and kept working.

Back to our wet guy, he luckily found a free chair. A middle-aged woman was sitting beside.

-Hi, lady - said the wet guy.

The so-called lady lifted her head from the newspaper she was reading, mumbled something you could say was “hello”, or at least something really similar, and kept reading.

-I see you like tea, too. Y’know, tea’s like inspiration for me – Do you think he was metaphysical about tea? He was, and in a bad way –. There are seven main kinds of tea. Every each of them causes different benefits to the human body. See, the great thing – the lady drunk a bit of her tea cup, and kept reading. You can bet she was praying for him to shut up – about tea is – he drunk also a bit – it doesn’t in any way harm your metabolism. All benefits. Not like coffee. Coffee turns people angry an’ nervous – Our patient lady shifted her look until she watched the wet guy’s face, smiled, and, again, kept reading the newspaper – I’m pretty sure you drunk coffee before. I can see you have a better face since that – the lady finished off her tea and started folding the newspaper. She left it on the table and stood up – Hey! Where are you going, lady? I’m still talking to you! – The lady hung her handbag over her left shoulder and walked outside Belinda’s.

- Bitch – said the wet guy when she left out.

- Freak – replied the lady, not knowing the wet guy’s comment.

A couple of minutes after, a well-dressed gentleman sat right where the lady was. Dropped his suit jacket over the table and started drinking coffee. He had to pull-off immediately.

-Sh…! – he silently cried. Every guy that tries to drink his coffee right after it has been served… gets his lips burnt.

-That never happens with tea – said the wet guy.

-Tea makes you sleepy, and tastes awfully – replied the gentleman.

The wet guy, only during an instant, turned his eyes wide open. Then he calmed down, finished off his cup of tea, and rose and got out of Belinda’s, leaving the gentleman with his lips hurting.

-Freak – said the wet guy, putting his hood on.

-Damn coffee – grumbled the gentleman.

“I love storms. The crush of the thunder. The “chop”, “chop”, “chop” of the puddles under my boots. Look at that guy, running under his umbrella. All the umbrella people must be careful with the wind. These are lovely

-BRMMMMMMM!!!

days. Wow! That was quite a thunder – I can’t remember if the previous one was longer or shorter than this one. No, it was definitely shorter. Poor guys. All of them, un-umbrelled people, thinking under that roof, deciding whether to wait or to run under the rainfall. I’d love getting wet. If only I wasn’t ill… You virus, better get out of my body, motherfucker. “Chop”, “chop”. When you look to the ground, the raindrops look like machine gun hits, how fun… singing in the rain, how stupid. It just wastes your throat, and vocal chords”.

You don’t know him. Yes, I’m talking about the wet guy, that one walking under his hood. Soon you’ll learn a bit about him. Soon.

“Why the hell must I walk so much? Y’know, it’s beautiful. I mean, walking under the rain, hearing the “chop-chop”s, or the “pick-pick”s, but sooo long, it’s tiring. Not beautiful at all”.

This guy has to walk for ten minutes from the train station to the office where he works. He is happy with his work. It’s just too far. He’d rather have it in front of his house. But, otherwise, if his office was that next, he wouldn't be able to feel the "chop-chop"s or the "pick-pick"s. Quite a contradiction. Just like everything in life, don't you think?

“How many people will have forgotten their umbrellas? I’d like to know. No more thunders? C’mon, cloud, you can do it!” He looks upwards “Thunder, thunder, thund… ouch!” He looked backwards now, and saw an angry guy moving away.

-Look where you’re going, idiot! – shouted the guy.

-Drink tea, stupid – Mumbled the wet guy for himself. Don’t be mistaken, the other guy is also wet. You know, our wet guy says the thing about the tea. Let’s keep calling him “the wet guy” until we found something about his real name, if we may. Keep reading and soon we'll know. Because I also want to know things about this wet, tea-lover guy.

“Why? Many “Why”es. Stop thinking. You can’t, you know it. You have to be thinking. Always. 24 hours a day. Descartes said something about thinking. Something really interesting, it seemed. If it had not been interesting, I wouldn’t have had to study him and all his theories. Your mind can’t stop thinking. Like a PC. Remember this, kids. Wires, wires, wires, my nervous system is full o’wires. Tea, tea, tea, my veins are filled with tea. So many kinds of teas. I won’t have time to taste and savour them all! Stop thinking! … Nonsense. It keeps coming. “Chop-chop”. That’s it. I’ll focus on chop-chop. “Chop-chop”. My boot smashing another puddle. Die you puddle! Die under my boot! Hahaha!! I'm better 'n bigger than you, and you know it! But a splash and it’s reborn. *sigh*, if only life was half as easy as that. Stop that. Better listen to the “pick”s. You don’t know what a “pick” is? The sound of the raindrops over the floor! A pick symphony. Made of picks, of different pitches. Third symphony in “pick” minor”.

Bueno, aquí está el primer atisbo de lo que intenta ser una novela completa, escrita desde cero en inglés (los hay que son frikis, los hay que son retorcidos, y luego estoy yo).

Salu2.