She was very nice-faced as my mother would say, and olive-colored eyes. I lived in New Rochelle, which is literally next to Harlem. In an attempt to see us he invited me to his parents’ golf club.
The plan was as follows, soon catch the train at Grand Central Station and she would pick me up. Wear your swim suit, and especially don’t bring jeans, he told me. They may not let you in. It was a Saturday at nine thirty in the morning on the Upper East side, and you couldn’t be better. Fresh air and a sun that illuminated your face with joy to know it was Saturday. When I arrived at the Grand Central station, a familiar and melancholy feeling invaded me because it was many times a meeting point for Nick and mine, when we were still getting to know each other. How many looks we crossed, and what a white shirt he wore when we were going to see each other. Always, with the pecholobo in the air. Always always and his glasses so Spanish. It was a rare mix to fool us.
Comfort and independence invaded me when I could sit in the car, with air conditioning and two seats for me. I took out my agenda where I keep my most precious and impossible goals, and while listening to music I started writing my plans and for the next few days, not to mention months.
In one of the stops, I could not do anything other than observe. The people who went up were of type, Latin or black. Well, few people left the site. A family of Latinos did nothing but divide the children through the seats, but people looked at them as if they were doing something weird.


When my friend picked me up from the station, I was surprised at her impasse, since she is very horny and cheerful. Maria has the characteristic of care to everyone who is around her in a delicate and honest way. It always tells you what you deserve, and you will never receive a no for an answer in each of the plans that you propose.
My arrival at the golf club was none other than surprisingly pleasant. As my father said, “you are in a pretty nice place Tigri.” The main lawn that separated the entrance of the clubhouse was so green that you doubted if it was real. When you entered, a house with a gable roof, white wooden windows, and reddish brick transported you to the French era of “the patriot.” You wanted nothing but to go down the hill and find a group of soldiers practicing shooting, and the ladies in an area drinking tea. Basically, it was all like a dream movie live. When we passed the hill, we realized that the pool was only and only for us. I only thought about the nap piece that was going to hit me, and in the end, I enjoyed it, and it was deli as my friend Majo says.
Once we signed and checked in at the reception, my friend took me to the changing room area. When I arrived I thought I was in the bathroom of the first lady of the United States. A string of locker doors made of wood and molding, which only made you want to touch to see if it was real wood. Each zone of lockers had an ideal fabric ottoman, and Victorian style.
The point is that I changed and put on my super dress bought in a tiny and cuckoo shop in Valencia over the bikini. It was deli to be literally in the pool with my friend. We were talking, putting on cream and laughing.
He told me about the number of appointments he had and how today’s boys have no idea of ​​treating a woman. The truth that I couldn’t agree more with her. My surprise came when he told me he had a job and was about to start next August 5th.

Marta Barcia

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