Coffee is a yes, wine is a no
This chronicle was selected for the anthology “50+ Tempo de Escrever” (time to write) by the Off Flip label.
He is 60 years old. She is 30.
He writes books. She writes screenplays.
He lives on the 12th floor, has two children. She lives on the 15th, alone.
Some of his books are cult classics. Others, not so much. Her films and series are hits. Almost all of them.
He is famous because of the books. She is anonymous despite the films. Nobody reads the credits at the end.
He is divorced. She is single. He was married three times: to a doctor, a psychiatrist, and a philosopher — in ascending order of madness. She dated boys and girls.
He has seen her at the pool. A tribal tattoo climbing up her back, another wrapping around her left arm and neck. He noticed her long, strong, sun-kissed legs. Large, firm breasts, no belly, and a firm butt. Small feet, short hair, beautiful smile.
She has seen him at the pool. Panama hat over a pair of dark sunglasses, behind a book. Next to him, cold drinks. Lime caipirinha, beer. Sometimes both at once.
She knows who he is. He doesn’t. He doesn’t know who she is. Does he know who he is? Hard to say.
Until he finds out through a mutual friend. Did she write that beautiful story? His kids love it. He loves it. Everyone loves it. They exchange contacts. He’s interested in screenwriting. Maybe they’ll talk? Someday?
He opens WhatsApp.
He throws the phone onto the table. She misunderstood.
What a mess—can’t a writer even communicate in writing? Damn. Tough world. Everything turned into harassment. It was nothing like that. He just wanted to chat.
But what about the tanned legs? The firm breasts? No, none of that. It was just a conversation.
Why wine? Huh?
Would she have answered the same way if he’d invited her for coffee?
New era, tough world. Coffee is okay, wine isn’t? Coffee means friendship, wine means sex?
So much ease, so many apps, and no one understands each other anymore.