You haven't come to see me in a long time. You're sitting there, waiting for me to give you conversation, but I can't. You didn't even call me. You knocked on the intercom. It's me. I was passing by. You were passing by? I stopped. I didn't know what to do. I thought for a moment, I swear, not to let you on. To tell you that I didn't know you or that you were wrong. However, I changed my mind and pressed the white, well, almost yellow, button on the little phone that opens the doorway.
I remembered the last time I saw you. Yes, don't you remember? Yes, man. We had decided to rob the jewelry store at the mall. One million euros in jewellery and watches. We had it all planned. Visit the mall. To visit the jewellery shop. Decide on the day. To steal the car and, at three o'clock in the morning, to embed it against the door of the shopping centre, to travel the hundred and fifty metres in a straight line, to reach the fifty kilometres per hour and to hit the reinforced aluminium door of the jewellery shop. No one expected it.
The day came. We stole the car. An all-terrain vehicle of almost three thousand kilos that we had had our eye on a few days ago. We left in the direction of the shopping centre. You were driving. Yes, you. You were the expert. We saw the mall at the end of the avenue lit up by Christmas lights. You were going slowly, until you had a shot at the door of the mall. You accelerated and set the car at a hundred and thirty kilometers per hour. You're going too fast. Loosen up a bit. You didn't listen. We hit the door and burst it, yes, but you flew out through the windshield glass. You weren't wearing your seat belt. An amateur failure. I was stuck in the passenger's armchair with three broken ribs and a cervical sprain. I got out of the car. You were unconscious. You were breathing with your mouth full of blood and a few teeth on the floor. I tried to wake you. I couldn't. I called 911 and got out of there.
You were silent because you didn't remember anything. That's what they told me. It was what I touched. You were in jail for a year and a half. I know that. I don't know what you think. Stealing again? I don't think so. That's not what you're for, and neither am I. I think I'll invite you to lunch, we'll try to talk about the old days, the ones you remember because the blow erased many memories. Then you will leave, dragging your right leg, the one you almost left on the road.
I don't know when I'll see you again, maybe in a few months or years, when you remember where I live again.
Image source: Pixabay
