At fifty, a woman is doomed
The man clattered the crockery while the woman on the chair listened to what she had to listen to.
At your age, a woman like you can only get into trouble, he shouted from one room to another. Like a housewife churning out advice while making a steak, he felt satisfied with what he was saying.
Her hair was yellow like the sun and a black area at her temples framed her face. She lifted her napkin to her face but she hadn’t touched her food or drunk much, then she sat still with her cigarette unlit, held precariously between her fingers.
And how about warming yourself up under the covers of a lover and then running away over the rooftop tiles like thieves of yesteryear? The man suggested.
What are you talking about? Said the woman trying to shout. Her voice came out raspy and sombre, she just tried to swallow and she touched her throat.
You’re sick, you need a doctor, she went on, pushing the table with her arms outstretched and her head bowed. She was getting ready for the face-off and she was living her moment, like seasoned boxers do.
At fifty, a woman is doomed, he reminded her from the kitchen. Then he added: have you got the number for a dentist? I can’t stand this pain any longer.