Harassment, assault, they’re not the same thing, he protests, and I didn’t even harass her! He liked to watch her from afar, it’s true, he followed her along the paths sometimes, and once he managed to get inside her house and hide in the closet to watch her take a nap. That’s all, that’s all! No one had explained to him that you couldn’t do that, it was inappropriate. If they’d explained, like the day when the police had informed him it was forbidden to talk to children, he would have followed the rules. But they never, ever gave him a chance. And they’re not giving him one now, either!

Champagne, cocaine, and sausages. That was, apparently, what they’d consumed one sunny morning in the hideout. Old Man had spent his good money on the alcohol and drugs, which Soon, of course, didn’t try—except for one sip of champagne, mmm, tasty. He applauded her behavior, didn’t try to get such a young girl to enjoy forbidden delicacies, although if she wanted to, one day … They did both eat the sausages. They were smoked, stuffed with cheese, the kind that come in a jar cut up into little slices, gourmet snacks to stave off midday hunger. They ate them with sliced bread and gave all the leftovers to the pigeons. What a strange lunch, Soon wrote that day, omitting the chorizo sandwich, the Cheetos-stained fingers, and the little water bottle refilled at the fountain.

The waitress interrupts them again. It’s the third time she’s approached their table. The first time was to take their order. The second was to ask if they wanted anything else. No, they said. Now she’s back again to insist. They must have been sitting there for two hours without consuming anything. But they don’t have any more money. Soon, at least, has none. Old Man searches his pockets discreetly—with his clumsy discretion—and asks for two glasses of water. Tap water, please! The waitress sighs, seems offended—the way she turns around, stalks over to the counter. She takes her time bringing them the water and she does it rudely, slamming the glasses down on the table without a word. The water is hot; when she takes a sip, Soon tastes soap. She and Old Man look at each other in silence. He doesn’t even notice the contempt he receives. Maybe he’s used to it. But Soon—who still hasn’t hit fifteen and whose knowledge of the world is limited—is capable of seeing that in this cafe, the problem isn’t her, it’s him. In spite of her age, her inexperience, and her once-marshmallow body, she could fit in there—she will fit in there soon, in just a few years. She’ll be like those other girls sitting at the table in back, talking and laughing—their laughter like chirping—ditzy, nervous, silly. But he, Old Man, no longer has time to adapt. The world would have to turn upside down for him not to stand out with his old-fashioned suit, his little glasses, his unkempt mustache, his arhythmical diction, and the damp, different gaze of the unbalanced.