Borja and I are at the Anthropologie store, my favorite. It’s 42C (something around 90F) outside and I’m checking out the sweaters because I’m cold as usual. The sugar thing is not helping either. I go round and round, touching and feeling and saying, “This is not fleece enough – do you have the same thing fleecier?” Borja hasn’t had any breakfast and lunch for that matter and is getting ready to strike me on my head. One more round and he’d pick up a metal pipe that is part of industrial-slash-rustic bed design.
“When are we going to go eat?” he whines.
“When we do, what do you want?” I say.
“A hamburger,” he said. “What are you going to have?”
“A hamburger too,” I say.
“You know you can’t.”
“Sure I can. I’ll just ask them to wrap it up in lettuce.”
“But what if there is sugar in the meat?”
Catching my piercing gaze, he makes a 45-degree pivot for a shelf with the overpriced flowery plates and cups.
“I’ll think I’ll take a couple of these,” he says, picking out two white mugs that he identifies as “belonging to aging English nobility.”
“Do you have any of that Victoria’s Secret wrapping paper left?” he wants to know. “I think they’ll be great for my girlfriends.”