Heartless lying bastard

Let me tell you something you may not know about me.

I was born without a heart. Got a transplant at eleven days old because my mother thought it was weird. Really, not that it was life threatening or anything, but it gave her the willies. Mostly, I think she felt guilty she didn't know who my father was and was desperate to make me whole. No such luck.

It didn't take. And so I stand here, as heartless as I was brought into this world, telling you it's not you, it's me.

You see, I have an itchy ring finger. Not that serious, really. It's just it's always been naked. I guess I kept it that way for too long, because now, whenever a pretty girl responds to my attentions, the third finger of my left hand starts to itch like crazy. It's no mild irritation, mind you. It's mind-numbingly haunting. Comes from underneath my skin, I can feel it. Like a fucking billion red big-bummed ants are crawling inside that particular phalange. There's been occasions where I've woken up next to some gorgeous woman my inexistent heart couldn't feel a thing for to find I had scratched myself to the bone. Literally.

If you don't believe me you should know I'm actually physically incapable of telling a lie. It's a bit of a problem, actually. When I try to utter a statement I know to be false, I get this allergic reaction to the essense of the untruth that makes my throat close up. It's an extremely rapid swelling. Kind of uncomfortable.

Anyway, you can rest assured that I am being honest here. You will see no struggle for breath or sign of gagging when I tell you this. I don't fucking love you.

I do not and could not ever hold any kind of romantic feelings for you whatsoever. Not even a teansy bit of affection.

However, my finger's driving me nuts, so let's put a few miles between us, yeah?

something blue

It's one of those bright-cloudy days. A few rain drops shyly make their heavy way to the ground while a big shiny sun is on its way to sunset. If you squint your eyes just a little bit, you can see the bluest moon getting all dressy for tonight.

Seems like the fucking perfect evening. This air makes it feel like anything could happen and just the smell of wet soil would make it seem magical.

Isn't 10pm the best time to start your day? When you wake up to this, there's nothing you're not up to. Even the breeze is yelling at you to get out there and take on the world.

They say that every once in a blue moon a vampire is born. FYI.

something old

We first saw each other at the peek of an orgasm. Actually, I hadn't met you yet. You talked to me like we knew each other, though. And as you held my hand, we disappeared for the rest of the world. Our existence was erased from the face of the Earth. We had no parents, no friends and no responsabilities. Our birth certificates melted in a snap. The world was still there and it was pretty much the same as before, only it didn't appear to have us in it. We were invisible to all effect and purpose, and although the world remained in its place for us to see, we couldn't have cared less.

Sheer newness

Just like sex, this little game is at least a little about newness. You're not going to be new forever.

Neither am I. And I know right know we seem infinite to each other. It truely feels like a lifetime is not going to be nearly enough to get to know you to a full extent.

Nonetheless, life is long. And time can seem infinite when limited to a single human body and only one voice. We will get to accepting there's just so much about each other. Some day, sooner than we probably expect, we are going to be able to cover that apparent vastness. We might get to the end of our universe.

But you know me, I'm throughoutly slow. Going inch by inch, meticulously. I have never been a fast learner, I will need to take my time.

And when I finally know you, the entire you, by heart, you know what? I think I'll start revising.

Evolve

I know you think we can't understand each other. You told me so. That for some reason people think they can do that. Your words, not mine. You said to remember that they can't, that we can't. Never completely. Never enough. But if you think people are such sad creatures, how come you are still holding my hand?

Perfect score

That's lucky. My first day and it's precisely her turn. It really feels like destiny didn't want me to miss it.

"That's her", he needlesly points her out as we cross paths with her, announced by her partner-in-crime. Not that I'm jealous, that is not exactly what I would like to be to her, but still. I resent yet admire that spot.

The show starts and I wouldn't be able to take my eyes off her if I could keep up. There's tricks of lights, harnesses flying by, extras deviating your eye from the main attraction. She takes on and takes off, juggles and hovers. You think you see her and then she's gone. A hail of sparks calls for attention and there she is, alongside her inseparable companion. They make you believe as almost they come as a pack. They do most of the time, in my mind.

It's unanimous. Her mark is way higher than the other three's convined. Her name and score get off on the board in a much brighter shade and start blinking.

Could it be my subconscious fears what it has always been obvious to me will become obvious to everyone else? But it is happening in front of my very eyes and I can't believe everybody else now knows of her greatness.

I'm not even worried that I'm up next.

This ungodly curse befallen unto us

Not so long ago, in a galaxy not so far away, there was an alliance of planets whose inhabitants lead such perfect lives the sole image of their dentist-crafted smiles on their impossibly attractive faces every splendid morning would make you want to regurgitate your breakfast.

Out of the blue, fate slapped that solar system's luck in the face: their children started being born without souls. Without any apparent reason, but also without any doubt, the soulless beings began to grow up. Or at least their empty recipients did.

Unable to find an explanation, the remaining souls that populated those twelve planets and seven moons were petrified by their own helplessness to fix this sick joke Nature was playing on them. And still too damn happy about everything else to stop mating, and therefore reproducing, like animals.

Soon the soulless outnumbered the souled, who in time became extint. Their offspring inherited their worlds with such naturalness not a single thing changed in appearance.

Needless to say, none of them noticed when the last souled inhabitant died.

About a boy

The boy sits on the bench right in front of mine and announces he's ready to tell the story.

"What is it about?", I ask him. He lifts his eyes up to no particular point in the sky and appears to be thinking it over for a few seconds.

"A boy", he says at least, big smile on his face.

"Of course, it's always about a boy, isn't it?" His infectious boyish grin starts to have an effect on me.

"Well, not always", he clarifies, taking the matter quite seriously. "Sometimes it isn't about a boy at all".

"Let's hope so", I tell him. The looks he gives me almost makes me regret being so cryptical with a five-year-old.

Cuadragésimo aniversario

Si te miro de perfil sigues aparentando los veintiuno y medio con los que te conocí. Y, de frente, bien podrías parecer una anciana, que, te aseguro, desde aquí abajo entre tus piernas nunca podré echarte un día más de unos fabulosos treinta y nueve.

Arritmia

Ciento diez pulsaciones.

Tengo cinco años y acabo de bajar del coche de mi madre. Llego un poco tarde y para compensar ya llevo el baby puesto, lista para el primer día de clase. Al entrar al aula me llama la atención un jersey de color llamativo cuya dueña no reconozco: niña nueva.

Sin previo aviso mis piernas me traicionan y me quedo plantada en la puerta, congelada. Llama su atención y se vuelve hacia mí. Me mira.


Ciento veinte pulsaciones.

Primera mirada, y al devolvérsela me da un vuelco el corazón. Con pausa compensadora posterior, no es una expresión. Sufro mi primera extrasístole ahí mismo. Esa parte del miocardio que no debería tener actividad eléctrica propia genera un impulso que se me propaga al resto del corazón y dispara el latido extra.


Setenta pulsaciones.

He vivido durante más de quince años con miedo a entrar en shock y morir. Me encuentro de forma casi constante al borde de la taquicardia, y temo al día en que ésta se convierta en extrema. Todo por la presencia de esa niña nueva que me aceleró el pulso ese primer día de clase. Sería tan fácil como alejarme de ella, pero no soportaría vivir un minuto dejando al azar el volver a verla.

Nos mantuvieron en la misma clase durante los siete años restantes de educación elemental. Me aseguré de matricularme en el mismo instituto, incluso indagué cuáles serían los estudios superiores de su elección y la seguí, para coincidir con ella en la facultad.

A fuerza de compañerismo, se estableció una vaga amistad entre nosotras. Mi fragilidad cardiaca no me hubiera permitido tener una relación demasiado cercana durante tanto tiempo.


Setenta y cinco pulsaciones.

Sólo la expectación de verla aparecer por la puerta me dispara el pulso. Con más razón de un tiempo a esta parte, ya que no he podido evitar que nuestra distancia se estreche. Un par de amigos íntimos en común y una serie de encuentros casuales está elevando nuestro estatus de conocidas a algo más.

Confío bastante en mi habilidad para mantener el tipo, pero temo que sus gestos amistosos se vuelvan demasiado físicos y revelen mi debilidad.


Ochenta pulsaciones.

Algo se huele. Desconoce los detalles de mi afección, por supuesto, pero algo en su mirada me dice que ha captado más de lo que me gustaría en la mía.


Noventa pulsaciones.

Cita de estudios ineludible. Maldigo al inventor de los trabajos en grupo y a mi insensatez al aceptar formar parte del suyo.

Por si fuera poco los otros tres componentes no estaban libres para el retoque final y hoy somos sólo las dos.

Por supuesto que en la biblioteca no se puede discutir sobre nada. Mi casa entonces, estupendo. Para qué discutir.


Noventa y cinco pulsaciones.

En mi opinión no necesita sentarse tan cerca para convencerme de cuál es la mayor influencia del constructivismo estructuralista. Francamente, dudo que quedárseme mirando a los ojos con la boca entreabierta ejerza ninguna influencia positiva sobre mi incipiente taquicardia.


Cien pulsaciones.

Estoy bastante segura de que besarme sin previo aviso no es algo que mi cardiólogo recomendaría.

Pero yo no pienso en mi cardiólogo, ni en el retumbar de mil tambores de batalla que amenaza con descarrilar. Ya nada más tiene sentido, ni me importa.


Ciento diez pulsaciones.

Mientras caemos en la cama y nos despedimos de las últimas prendas también deja de importarme el zumbido de alarma que mi pecho bombea garganta arriba. No oigo, no veo, no la siento sino a ella.


Ciento quince pulsaciones.

Creí que el corazón me estallaba. Literalmente. Al alcanzar el clímax está más que cercano a escapárseme del pecho.

No consiento que se vaya a ninguna parte. Aún no. Ahora no, con sus ojos en los míos y el mundo en sus labios.


Noventa pulsaciones.

Toda mi vida he tenido la sensación de que me faltaba algo, que estaba incompleta. Siempre he esperado pacientemente, como si tuviera por cierto que vendría. Tendida con ella, empiezo a sentir como la intranquilidad desaparece. Me encuentro completa, puedo sentirlo. Y mi amigo fibroso también. Por fin se está tranquilizando, noto como se relaja.


Sesenta y cinco pulsaciones.

Casi sin darme cuenta mi ritmo cardiaco ha descendido hasta igualar el suyo.


Cincuenta pulsaciones.

Puedes creerlo, de la taquicardia a la bradicardia en apenas diez minutos. No me altero, sería imposible.


Treinta pulsaciones.

Al dejar atrás las veintiocho pulsaciones sonrío, estoy batiendo el récord de Indurain. Comprendo que no hay tiempo para marcapasos alguno. La miro por última vez, durmiendo sobre mí.

Sonrío de nuevo, y cierro los ojos.

No light (at the end of the tunnel)

It never stops, does it? You just have to keep going and trying and reaching for that nothing you are never going to get to. There is no rest. No stepping out for breath. That is just it, all there is, all there has ever been, all there will ever be.

To go on, keep walking. Fall and crawl your way back up until you trip again and fight to get a grip on something just firm enough. There's no final reward, just small hints of mirages that trick you one more day, one more year, into thinking some day there might be something else that'll make everything worth it.

It drops. And just when you are about almost dried up, it starts dropping again. But just a little. It just drops, it never flows.

And it never will.

Cómplices del silencio

La palabra está sobrevalorada, hablar las cosa rompe la magia. Yo siempre preferí el cine mudo, los acuerdos tácitos, las conexiones secretas, no reveladas.

¿Sabes ese tipo de miradas que se intercambian con ese tipo de personas? Esas que son como tú, que lo exploran todo de uno o mil vistazos y parecen querer comerse el mundo con los sentidos, y por qué no empezar con los ojos.

Son miradas fugaces, de paso, robadas. El tímido instante que duran alcanza justo para hacer brillar una chispa de entendimiento. Os reconocéis como parte de la misma subespecie, y vuestras pupilas intercambian una afirmación silenciosa.

Calláis, porque habría demasiado que decir.

The Highest Meanest Queen (staring down)

"The Highest Meanest Queen
staring down onto me,
burning my paper world."

She frowns and says to me, in a husky broken voice:

- If I can still be moved by an ending to the point it drives me to tears, there must be some remains of the human I once was left in me.

I tell her there are not but twenty-one seasons in the life of oneself. That it all starts, as any truly important thing, on a whimp. And that there is no need to worry, for everything has happened before, and anything can happen again.

She was mine

"I'm yours to fuck, but not only yours", the bitch had the nerve to tell me. Like I didn't know that already. But she didn't have to say it, y'know?. The bitch.

And that's why I stabbed her. 'Cause she was fucking mine to stab.

The single best portrait ever to be taken

"We make ourselves believe we want to become the artist behind that camera, but in the end, we'd secretly love to be the ones in that picture, frozen in time for generations to come and look at us and wonder, not about the finger that clicked off a machine that fraction of a second, but about the eyes that will be staring back at them for all eternity", the famed photographer Colin Shashin was confessing to me.

He had spent his whole life convinced its main purpose was to find that caption that would make it and go down in history as the single best portrait ever to be taken.

I agreed to a session with him, his first in front of the camera. And it would be with me, an unknown begginer, a complete nobody, unpublished and inexperienced, behind it. His words, not mine. Exactly why he chose me, he told me.

And that's the whole story of the so-called enigmatic Monkey Lank. All there is to it from the artist's point of view, anyway.

It was me that snapped the shot, but the picture will be his forever.

La Baronessa Maionesa i el Duc Suc

Sempre hi ha alguna cosa que cadascú fem millor que ningú. Ningú en el món podria guanyar-nos a això ni encara que ho intentés. Ni encara que es tractés d'una competició, que per descomptat no és el cas.

El problema, si és que es vol veure com a tal, és que no sempre -o més aviat gairebé mai- som conscients de quin és el nostre punt fort. És més, normalment solem estar totalment convençuts -i equivocats, per descomptat- de ser els millors en alguna cosa que no és, ni de lluny, el que millor se'ns dóna en aquest món.

I per a mostra, un botó. El nostre botó serà el cas de la Baronessa Maionesa i el Duc Suc, que feien una parella molt sucosa i saborosa, tot cal dir-ho.

El senyor Duc creia que era el millor en soltar afirmacions categòriques i quedar-se tan ample. I encara que això era tècnicament cert (soltava cada bestiesa d'agarra't i l'home ni s'immutava), en rara ocasió encertava amb les seves categoritzacions.

Clar que pitjor era el de la seva dona, la Baronessa, que es creia la propera Caballé. I per molta semblança física que guardés amb la soprano, fins al major incult musical podia notar la diferència. És com això que diuen: "No sé d'art, però sé el que fa sagnar les meves oïdes".

Així va ser que una tarda, trobant-se el condimentat matrimoni a la sala, va dir el Duc:

- Res en aquest Univers passa una sola vegada.

I tan ample que es va quedar el senyor Duc.

A tot això que la seva muller la Baronessa Maionesa estava a la meitat d'una peça musical molt delicada que estava destrossant sense delicadesa alguna. Davant la categorització del seu marit, que va coincidir amb la part clau de la seva peça, el Do de pit se li va anar per l'altre costat i va esclatar la copa de cristall del bo en mil bons trossos.

Aquests van sortir disparats en totes les direccions, així tant que una bona part va tocar disparar-se en direcció a la cara de la senyora Baronessa. El Duc es va aixecar d'un salt del tresillo que acomodava al seu noble pandero i va córrer a l'auxili de la seva mitjana taronja.

- Amor meu, trocet de cel, ¿què estàs bé?
- No patissis, què encara no em va encetar.
- ¡Quin esglai m'has donat! Per un moment he pensat que et perdia.
- Mira que ets exagerat, home. Total, per una ridiculesa de cristallets...
- ¡I per qualsevol cosa! ¿Què faria jo sense tu?
- Doncs què vas a fer, vell babau, doncs buscar-te una de vint i ser feliç.
- Ai, no diguis aixó... No sabria pas ser feliç sense tu.

I es què en realitat quan de debò el Duc Suc tocava el blanc, encara després de trenta-cinc anys de matrimoni, era al sincerar les seves pors envers la seva esposa la Baronessa Maionesa. Això era una cosa en el que ningú no podria superar-li mai, ni encara que ho intentés.

Casualment es donava el cas que el que millor se li donava a la Baronessa, encara després de trenta-cinc anys de matrimoni, era posar-se-li colorides les galtes enfront de les confessions del seu marit, soltar un "¡Cóm t'estimo, Duquet Suquet meu!" ple d'emoció i plantar-li un petó al nas. Fent pujar el rubor del senyor duc a les seves reals orelles, a joc amb les galtes de la seva esposa.

Se avecina tormenta

Apoyada en el quicio de la ventana el aire comienza a oler a lluvia. La niebla se va cerniendo tímidamente sobre la bahía, y ante la inminente oscuridad con la que la tarde nos trae de la mano a la noche, comienzan a iluminarse ventanas por toda la ciudad.

Me imagino a los ocupantes de las estancias que las contienen llegar a casa después de un largo día, soltar el equipaje de guerra, rendirse ante la cifra que contemplarán en sus facturas de la luz y darle al interruptor. Ya está oscureciendo.

Siento curiosidad por las escenas que iluminan cada una de esas bombillas. Me gustaría traspasar esas paredes y echar una ojeada, nada morboso, simple curiosidad inocente. Cuántas de esos puntitos alumbrarán duchas relajantes o redentoras. Cuántas serán testigos de la cocción de una cena o de su ingesta. Las del edificio de enfrente son las que más información me conceden: distingo a la mujer de mediana edad recogiendo la ropa del tendedero, a la familia cenando en el salón, a la universitaria estudiando inclinada sobre su escritorio...

Me pregunto qué patrón matemático o pseudo-aleatorio siguen esas lucecitas para prenderse. El aire ya oxida. Se avecina tormenta.

En el primer piso ya ha empezado. No hacen ningún esfuerzo por ocultarlo ni graduar el volumen de sus voces, su última preocupación debe ser el que yo pueda oírles. Uno de los interlocutores pretende dar la discusión por finalizada con una sencilla concesión, sin darse cuenta de que no es lo que se necesita de éste. No se trata de hacer malabarismos con los compromisos, se trata de priorizar, y de verlo claramente, sin ayuda.

Silencios violentos se intercalan con fragmentos ahogados de diálogo. Al cabo de un rato la conversación cambia ligeramente de rumbo y el interlocutor increpante descarga su enojo en un tercer aludido no presente. Por suerte tampoco se trata de mí.

Cierto es que evito los enfrentamientos directos tanto como puedo, pero mi alivio no se debe a haberme librado de uno, puesto que no hubiera sido el caso. Algo en mi pecho llevaba anunciando tormenta desde el bochorno de esta mañana de finales de Agosto. Pero esa tampoco es la verdadera razón.

Las tejas que tengo al alcance de la mano ya se ven húmedas. El cielo se disputa los últimos grises y ocres. Se aprecian más luces. Incluso otras menores, parpadeantes, dentro de éstas. Claro, televisores. Mis ensoñaciones siempre se olvidan de ellos.

Se oyen voces exaltadas saliendo de una de las ventanas recién iluminadas. Otra discusión. ¿Habrá alguien en el piso superior, mirando hacia mi ventana iluminada?

That voodoo that you do

"So are you going to show me your doll collection?", I ask with pretended inocence.

"Dolls?"

"With pins and needles...", I tease, with a deliberate farce smile.

"That's actually the biggest and most common misconception...", you begin. Then you realize how preachy you sound and shyly smile back, eyes down.

I caress the mojo bag you're wearing through your shirt. Only you know which mixtures it holds or whether it is protecting you from evil or perhaps drawing love. It could be a mere good luck charm you wear to bring you success in gambling. Are you a gambler?

"Are you a gambler?". Your eyes meet mine and a twinkle in yours leads me to believe you had already read my question. Do my facial expressions give that much away?

"Not really. I do not believe in luck nor in game", you say in a rustle. "Something much more supernatural and crossed...", you let fade.

"Right. You're so the voodoo bokor...".

"No sorcerer, no Voodoo, no Hoodoo". You just said that on purpose, didn't you? You teaser. I can play the game, you remind me of the man...

"You remind me of the man", I begin.

"What man?". You don't see where I'm going yet, do you?

"The man with the power", I go on.

"The power? What power?". You are clearly still lost.

"The power of Hoodoo". Enter the game. Join me.

"Hoodoo?". You smile, now following knowingly. You are in, my friend.

"You do". I keep performing, but now you know it.

"Do what?" See? You know it.

"You remind me of the man...".

I let my voice drop at the end. I'm walking scarcely two steps ahead of you, still facing you, your almond eyes and dark skin shining at me. I could do this all day, you know.

"I could do this all day, you know". You don't say anything, but keep walking. The two steps seem to be shrinking.

Are we just strolling or are you taking me to some place in particular? I don't ask you this, I just think it. But you hear me just the same, don't you?

You nod. My smile broadens.

You suddenly speed up the pace and there is no two steps anymore.

"Explain it to me", I ask in a barely audible whisper.

"What? The so-called Mumbo Jumbo?", you mouth out.

I shake my head, without taking my eyes off yours.

"How do you do it?", I ask.

"Do what?" You keep looking at me. I keep looking at you. I smile. You smile.

'Fotuda'

Ja veig per on has estat anant. Com ets de retorçada, fotuda. Va ser tot gairebé massa fàcil, ¿oi? Quan volies dir-li alguna cosa, i només em tenies a mi, tan sols tenies que dir el meu nom en lloc del seu. Em miraves, sense veure'm, perquè no era jo, només interpretava el seu paper.

No és cosa teva, ja ho sé. Sóc jo, que em deixo. Però es que em dius qualsevol cosa bonica, i ja em tens guanyada. I quan em mires amb aquesta mirada teva m'hipnotitzes, encara que se't escapi el seu nom un parell de vegades.

Si cal, em canviaré el nom. Puc ser qui tu vulguis, fotuda.

'Out of sight, out of mind'

- Hello?
- Hey, it's me.
- Hey. What are you doing calling me at home?
- I called your cell, but it went straight to voice mail.
- Yeah, well, I can't pick up now.
- I figured. It's just I had to talk to you.
- Right. I can't talk for long.
- It's OK. Actually, it's better this way.
- All right, then. What is it?
- Listen, I can't do this anymore.
- Please, not again. I know it's hard on you, but you have to understand I can't leave.
- I know, I'm not asking you to.
- Then what is it that you're saying?
- That I'm done. I need to figure my life without you because, right now, I can't even imagine myself without you. And I can't have that.
- You've met someone.
- No, I haven't. It's just me.
- Right, so you've "changed", have you?
- No, that's not it either. But I need to. I have to stop waiting around for you. For you to call, for you to have a free couple of hours or even if I'm lucky, a weekend... For you to decide yet again it's wrong, that it's you who cannot do this any longer. For you to, once more, change your mind and call back. I just can't.
- But I still love you.
- What was that again? I couldn't hear you.
- Sorry, thought I heard something... I couldn't speak up. I said I love you.
- You say that now.
- I know that now. And you know that now. And you do too.
- Do what?
- Come on...
- Love you?
- Don't you?
- Of course I love you. You already know that. And I am perfectly and painfully aware that I may never stop loving you. But that's not the point.
- I thought that was precisely the whole point of it all.
- No. You don't know what you want, and I don't know if you'll ever know, and it hurts way too much.
- Don't do this.
- I'm doing it. I just can't do this. I'm sorry.
- No, you're not.
- Fine, I'm not. Actually, I'm glad to be able to walk away and, for once, not leaving things being the one who's being walked away from.
- I never walked away.
- Yes, you did.
- I did not.
- Oh, but you did too.
- No, not entirely. Never.
- That's right. You just forget about me the second I am out of your sight, and you don't remember I exist untill the very instant you bump into me again. It's like you can't acknowledge what you're not seeing, I swear. You just disconnect.
- It's not like that. I'm not seeing you right now, am I?
- No, but you're finally seeing reality. I'm not waiting around.
- Can I see you?
- Right now?
- Yes, please. I want to see you.
- I thought you couldn't talk long. And now all of a sudden you have the time to see me?
- I'll make the time, I need to see you right now.

Pause.

- Hello?
- I'm still here.
- So can I see you?
- No. It's me who cannot see you. I can resist you on the phone, but I couldn't on person. I can't.
- You'll have to see me sooner or later. Monday, five o'clock on the field.
- Actually, no. You don't have to worry about any awkwardness and neither you nor me have to worry about seeing each other ever again.
- It wasn't a date, you really have to be on the field on Monday at five.
- I don't, coach. I quit.

Short pause.

- You still there?
- I am.
- I said I quit the team.
- No, you don't. You won't. I'll talk to your parents, you know I'm friends with your dad. He'll never let you quit, Meg. He wants you to get that scholarship.
- Dad and the scholarship, huh? You don't mess with your cards, always all in.
- You know I'm not bluffing.
- Whatever, Susan. Have it your way. But you won't have me anymore.
- We'll see about that.
- You got it, we will see.
- Monday, five.