You Were a Better Liar in Paris

She was very tall and I am usually not to the liking of such women, despite Diego's notion that the tall ones prefer shorter men. I am more the type they repel. Besides being short, my hair is very straight and yellow and my eyes are a dull blue, all of which gives me a certain evil air that intimidates the opposite sex. Carlos says I am an angel with a dirty face and insists that I look like James Cagney. Truth be told, I am a good person and if it weren't for my shyness, I'd have better luck meeting women. I know many people who, like me, are timid and prefer to listen rather than talk. Though I would much rather watch than listen. That is why I drink at the bar, the bar stool offers me stature and a secure position and Jaime, the barkeep, takes care of my immediate needs. I also appreciate the mirror behind the bar, it lets me observe all I want, everyone else's moves, who comes and goes, it's like being in a dream. I see myself and everyone at the bar in motion, performing the most mundane acts in a manner that seems new: the expression on their faces after taking their first drink, the pose adopted when asking for another beer . . . I like observing faces most of all, reading them, imagining the history behind each one, who dons a mask and who is wearing their real face. That evening, a majority of the customers at the bar had the look of extreme boredom. That's why she caught my eye: her easy laughter, delivered without any desired effect, gave me the impression that she was happy. In contrast, the man she was with seemed to be one of those dark, secretive, reptile types (at least that's the impression he gave). At times his face took on a gesture that made him look like a dirty old shoe. He smoked filterless cigarettes and wore a silk tie that was quite ugly.

I know a lot about ties. I spend hours before display cases in department stores, and I caress them and imagine the possible combinations I can make with my wardrobe. For work I use woven ties in solid colors (they give off a seriousness that infuses people with trust), but to go out for dinner or to have a drink with friends, a fine Italian cravat will do. They are the best: matched with the right outfit, not too shiny, not too dull. Their only fault is that they are too long. Of course, this is only so because, as I said before, I am quite short.

The man lit cigarette after cigarette, but after three or four puffs, he would put them out. No doubt he was pompous. It didn't take much to figure out he was in love with his companion. He was pleading for something, but she was practically ignoring him. Suddenly she got up, came over to the bar, and sat very close to me. I pretended I didn't notice. The man followed and begged her forgiveness.

"It was not my intent, I swear."

"Then why?"

"I don't know, sometimes I can't make sense of what I do, but you know I'm not like that. Give me another chance . . . "

"You know I don't believe you. Why do you insist?"

Jaime, the bartender, was having fun with the scene and he pointed to the poor man who was growing weaker by the moment. She, on the other hand, seemed very self-assured. This made me realize that he was lost, without a chance. I would have liked to tell him so, as I walked him to the door, to try and console him (like most people, I have a weakness for the underdog). But it was obvious that this man did not...