Dolores.

The walls covered with musty wall-paper, smelling cigarettes. Those so silent furniture, omniscient. That room had a lot of stories to tell, it had ever been witness of Dionysian orgies, personal glories and inglorious, drunken torpors, rusty shouting. Dolores was ever an old lady, outworn. She lived all her life inside those stale walls.

The door-bell rang scratching the tedious. Dolores ran to answer. It was Pablito. He came to call her to go out together. Their lives could melt down, join each other, perhaps thus could make it easier, their lives, easier to support their phlegm existential, common in that age.

All the life, after twenty years, Dolores had spent inside that apartment. The buildings of Madrid were prettier from that sought. There was a classic elegance on that panorama that was capable to inspire Dolores on keeping her insipid life. The worse her life was, the more elegance and classic she lived. She was too much feminist to ‘join’ someone. She was too old, she felt herself archaic, unhappy. So, she asked Pablito to go away, he opposed, but she didn’t want anything, anything except taking a long sleepiness.