Mr. D. was one who knew by heart how many more rules of human society could tolerate. The rules made him feel secure, sovereign of a small kingdom but mangy as only a building can be. It could meet in the morning, while falsely distracted measured by eye the height of the hedges of the garden who arrived a month earlier. Sometimes, seeing is being watched, pretending to call the son or the dog, no fancy switches, moving his head as if in the grip of a twitch in slow motion, turning on itself but unable to look away from the detail that bothered him. So
produced signs. Plasticized, colored, with the ambition of those who own sarcastic is very serious but he is afraid that one day, from behind the tree pruned or hurt by a peeling wall for moisture, it turns out that it takes a slap. "You like that in your house is all tidy and clean, you also bought a basket for the differentiated really beautiful. But when you walk in common garden, you forget that you can not throw your butts on the ground. Come on, make an effort. This space is yours. "With the result to be more annoying and less effective than a public service announcement, and find his shredded posters, cast as dangerous frisbee over the fence of his lush landscaping, commented with a terse" Pirlo "scrawled in permanent marker.
But D. was an enthusiast, and even spat on him when the reality that all of his smiling face contempt he stopped believing that life is beautiful.
He started losing his hair at age 21, a ' malignant alopecia who had robbed a few weeks of color at the center of the head, leaving this white circle, perfect souvenir. Mounted on a body uncoordinated and insecure, yet always seems happy, satisfied. He was married to a woman who was already at the second appointment terribly boring, but sometimes everything is better when you've been dumped by someone who admits that you "can not lie, do not love you for a year now." The in-laws they had immediately perceived malleability, strengthening their power of action on the young family with a generous loan to buy a house. The house that D. loved more than anything, and that every Sunday he opened the doors to the two elderly pleased that even before they are placed in the living room to greet a list of errors on the style and color choices delayed walls. Then he sat in a cool place, and while D. grilled steaks for their expensive, muttering to their ignorance. But
D. loved to wake up and sweep away the leaves from the driveway, going out with the dog, give unsolicited advice to the next box, inventing new signs, colored haiku of repressed aggression. He had everything in the toolbox of others lacked, and he loved everything that was mechanical, physical, probable, respectful of the rules, exactly. Even those of grammar, to which was attached by a third grade teacher who used to praise the precision of the writing, which never took the luxury to get out of line. The day
D. left the house on foot, t-shirt still dirty in the soil which had planted the hydrangeas, the wife did not notice either. The glass of Prosecco, the third that afternoon, he kept away from the anger over the order in which D. had pigeonholed their daily lives, a constellation of post-it on the switches (only the light of the sun is free "), the waiver (" I do not think the cookies will be grateful for the time that the air leaving open grant the package), on the fridge ("Are you sure that someone does not live in here for too long?").
We all thought that the discovery had been hurt, but did not know that Don, as he was attentive to details, he knew everything. The suffering had never scared. Of that sign, a cheap piece of A4 paper hanging crooked on the gate of the box, he realized only the next morning. "Your wife gets the horns." Eccheccazzo, at least the shape.
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