This Sunday´s Just Not The Same

This Sunday's just not the same.

The shabby-looking man who runs the kiosque on the other side of the plaza from where I live has been ill for about a week now. He has scrawled a note informing his customers that he had "fever, the flu, any other illness you may want to add" and has left the kiosque locked up for more than 5 days now.

The man, whose name remains unknown to me, is (in)famous for having his kiosque - the only place in the neigbourhood where you can buy rollies - open as early as 7 in the morning until as late as 10 at night.

The special offer duvet that Juan Pablo and I bought as a result of 4 weeks' worth of saving up coupons from El País was picked up from that kiosque. I usually buy my Sunday paper from him and often end up sitting across the plaza from him on one of the benches that bathe in the sun. He has his own internet connection in the kiosque and watches Hollywood blockbusters from a plasma tv he has set up between porn magazines and cheap paperbacks. And every weekend without fail he blasts Dusty Springfield´s "Son of a Preacher Man" and his other favourite tunes from his hi-fi stereo, drowning the square in groove, much to the dismay of those having their afternoon siesta or salsa class in the neighbouring buildings.

But not this weekend. This Sunday, the kiosque is void of life. The Sunday sun has an eery shine.