She was not very talkative. At MSN they had talked about nights and nights for a long time, and their conversations seemed inexhaustible. During those conversations, he once thought that she was true to him, but nothing seemed less true. She had a strange voice, it seemed as if she spoke with full mouth and constantly had a piece of some of her back on her tongue. It was a terribly high and unstable voice. And she was a bit thicker than the photo she sent him. 'Fatter'. He heard thinking about himself knowing that it was an understatement. "Even to the toilet," he said, he muttered, not pushing for the tactlessness, the sluggish tone to which he addressed her. Arrived at the urinal he opened his pants, sighed deeply, and frustrated, trying to pee the soap cubicle through the holes in the porcelain bowl. He was even thinking about squeezing it out. That would be very common. But she has seen herself sitting behind her computer better than she is. Much better. Almost he was debated with his guilt; Would his slippery flight outweigh the desperate region that had "the wife of his dreams"? Eventually she had made it out of despair, looking for a little attention and interest. How sad, too, in his head filled with disappointment and anger, there was little room for compassion. He had not felt too good for a girl before, but this monster, this mormon, should store them. He was amazed that they did not step out of the establishment because of the loss of appetite from all the people who had seen her passing by. With darling pens. He hates fat people who do not bother to dress properly after their posture. He found it outrageous to see that an extra-color sweater could also serve as a navel sprout. During the meal he wandered his gaze until underneath her sweater she saw a white-haired bell. Perhaps he had put too high expectations, he dreamed so much about her that reality would be against it. He ripped his pants back. No, this drama was - anyway - due to her.
While he is washing his hands and looking at himself in the mirror, he is wondering how much money he has given to her. Balance comes to the discovery that this hell day has cost him a little eighty euros. With fresh reluctance he holds his hands dry and runs the restaurant again. With a detour he searches his table again and picks up on his chair. He blinks once with his eyes and concludes that the seat of his appointment is empty. "She's gone, so somebody's not overlooked," he jokes in himself. On the table is a note: "At MSN you were more fun. Sorry."
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