Hypothermia

were really capable of writing something worthwhile.
    Naturally, this wasn’t the case: I was working on the article that I turned in today for the Living section. My editor loved it. With his repulsive, petulant, faggoty pronunciation, he once again recommended that I quit Personnel and dedicate myself to real writing. It’s never too late, he told me. I told him that I’d wait until retirement to start writing full time. I said this out of habit, without even thinking about it. He offered to help me whenever I took the plunge: he had friends with inside connections. I kept my scoffing to myself; what could his friends offer a man like myself? As I was leaving his office, my right hand touched the gold fountain pen in my shirt pocket, a gift from my sister when I finished my B.A. We call it la pluma de Dumbo , which is to say—because pluma is plume is feather is quill is pen — Dumbo’s feather , because until today it’s always been my good-luck charm: I’ve used it to write the first page of every one of my unfinished novels. As I walked along the hallway I tapped the pen against my palm a few times, thinking ahead to the afternoon and the tequila I was going to have for an aperitif. Sebastián would order a vodka tonic. It’s always the same: I drink Herradura and he drinks Absolut. I pick the wine for dinner. For a nightcap, he has Carlos I brandy and I have dry Chinchón anís on the rocks.
    After I finished typing the article that the idiot from Living loved so much, I went to bed. Estela was still awake. She must have assumed I was depressed about what Sebastián had said and was feeling the need for some well-deserved consolation: the truth was that neither wife nor son knew that after mulling over Sebastián’s comments, I couldn’t help but agree with him. She hugged me tightly and we ended up making love like a couple of elephants; we’re too old and out of shape to do it any other way. We finished, and as she lay there panting she told me that Sebastián had asked me to forgive him for being rude. He wanted to take me out to eat at Los Alamos, a place I really like.
    He’s a good-hearted kid. And even if he isn’t, at least he keeps his word. He called me at eleven-thirty, when I had just come back from turning in my article. After we said hello, he asked me how I was doing. Between sighs I said that I was fine. Well, it doesn’t sound like it, he told me. Without softening the rueful tone in my voice I mentioned that I was having problems at work. Anything serious? he asked. Just the usual stuff. He suggested that we have lunch together so that I could tell him about it. I said that I’d love to but I couldn’t because on days when I’m in a bad mood I prefer to eat alone at my desk. He begged me to go to Los Alamos with him to see if that would cheer me up. We agreed to meet at three-thirty.
    I had a bit of work to finish but no real desire to do it, so I locked the door, drew the blinds, and settled into an armchair to wait for lunch, planning my new life. At three o’clock on the dot I got up, slapped on some cologne, and headed out. We arrived at the restaurant within a few minutes of each other. He had obviously been hard at work until the very last minute, and he showed up looking nervous: he only remembered to take off his jacket when he was already sitting down.
    Unlike me, Sebastián is the kind of person who loves and respects his job. Thanks to which we have ammunition for another of our endless arguments. He says that his profession demands a great deal of responsibility—I can forget to sign a check and it’s no big deal: a slight delay for some anonymous payee; whereas if he miscalculates the weight of this or that material going into some structure, his oversight could cost countless lives. Whenever he mentions it, I remind him that I was opposed to his studying engineering. A career like that, I always told him, will bring you nothing but problems and frustrations. But in spite of the never-ending sarcasm that I heap on him, he often seems proud of having succeeded in his profession. Once he even told me that if I’d let him watch television like other kids, he would’ve studied humanities; he’s sure that the torturous afternoons I spent expounding on the virtues of the Young People’s Treasure Chest Encyclopedia turned him away from culture for good. Today I tell myself that he might actually have a point, but it’s far too late for regrets.
    While I watched