14

— Damn!

— What's up, Richard.

— That fucking son of yours, what else?

— Oh hell! There comes you again with this bullshit! He's gone. Let him live his own life in peace. It's been a month and you are still complaining.

— But he's only fiftenn.

— So what. You were thirteen when you left your parents.

— Wait a moment! I left them because I needed to work. I could maintain myself. This is different from this vagabond. I keeps all night awake, drinking, or doing whatever.

— Take it easy! Give the boy a try. Today the world is different.

— Ye, I know it very well, and that's the worst part. Now he has probably became a faggot or is arrest, sniffing cocaine. If he is alive, because it has benn two weeks since we hear some news from him

— Stop that. He would never do so. Look, I guess he has a girlfriend.

— Probably Bolíver, Guevara, or one of these long haired with whom he always is.

— No, I mean it. I was cleaning his closet and found a box in the middle of his clothes. It was full of poems and letters to this girl called Clara... I think they date.

— Bullocks. In the best case, it is some bitch he met in a whorehouse and is after him now.

— You are really a shithead. You never let the boy in peace. How can you be so stubborn and yet have never noticed why have your son become so aggitated.

— Yea, now you gonna tell me he is just like me...

— Only you can't see it...

— I don't even know if he is really my son. Know what? I going around and I don't know what time I return. Burn this things from this boy, he's gone and I don't want him back.