Was he a gypsy? Who cares?… Oh, no wait, he cares, but why? “Why I cannot stay in one place?” He asked all the time, in all those countries he had been. Flavia was in the same fucking place, the same age, the same face, the same, always the same, no, no way he could stay the SAME, nobody is, and something in him deep down was aware of it. May 16th just passed by. Another birthday away from her. Two short stories in all those years, just that. A name in his head, a memory that never happened or it did. At this point he is not sure. One year more added to his gypsy life or wait, was it added or subtracted? But… when, maybe while he was taking the last airplane or was a train or a bus? “FUCK!” he yelled, he could not remember. It was his life and he could not remember a simple fact, just a date “Today is my birthday” started to repeat quietly until an old lady asked him in a very mockingly way “Ok, dear, what do you want us to do now?” pointing the people around. He could see the people, were those faces? He was not sure, but what about the place “Where the fuck I am?” he asked “Here” the old lady replied “Here” he said “I am here” so he closed his eyes and, in the distance, the happy unbirthday song came to him, it was May 22th. He lost his flight, his luggage and his watch, but there was Flavia in his head with a flower in her hand singing happy unbirthday to you, my dear gypsy where ever you are, you will always be here.
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