Any day in real life

 

I left home without a fixed destination, letting myself be carried away by the simple pleasure of walking. The cool morning air brushed against my face, mingling with the murmur of the city’s early hours. There was no hurry, no maps, no schedules—just the intention to lose myself in the casual rhythm of the street.

I sat down at a café terrace. I ordered a coffee, and while waiting, I dedicated myself to observing the ebb and flow of people: a delivery man with a box on his shoulder, tourists with cameras, couples laughing, elderly folks reading newspapers spread out on the table. Each person carried with them an invisible story, an entire world of worries and joys that could be glimpsed in their distracted gazes or hurried steps.

The waiter placed the steaming cup in front of me, briefly interrupting my daydream. We exchanged a few jokes before he disappeared. I took a deep breath, savoring the bitter aroma along with the vibrant atmosphere around me.

It was one of those days when you find a moment of perfect tranquility, as the sunlight filtering through the folds of the awnings painted dancing glimmers on the shadowed marble of my table.

I paid and resumed my walk, still directionless but certain that chance would lead me to another interesting corner.

TOTAL LIQUIDATION! FINAL CLOSING DUE TO RETIREMENT

The letters, shaky and hand-painted, seemed to ooze urgency and melancholy. I approached the shop window, cluttered with dust-covered objects: 1920s hats, faded slippers... My curiosity was piqued. Would I find something inside waiting for me?

The rusty bell jingled with an oxidized sound as I pushed the door, as if protesting the interruption of the shop’s tranquility. The mechanism, old and worn, hung from a discolored ribbon, its bronze patina dulled by years of peace and neglect, letting out a clink-clank as if each visit strained its rusted gears. Still, it stubbornly fulfilled its duty, announcing the arrival of intruders to this refuge of mothballs and the faint sweetness of old fabrics...

Piles of discounted items were haphazardly stacked on a long wooden counter: tweed jackets with sagging shoulders, 1970s dresses with yellowed tags, and patent leather shoes abandoned in cardboard boxes. But amidst the chaos, atop a headless mannequin tucked in a corner, stood out a collection of vintage straw sun hats. Their wide brims boasted satin trim and small pink silk bows, while the beige cotton lining still carried the scent of the countryside. An adjustable elastic cord peeked from under the brim.

"How beautiful!" I murmured, running my fingers along the edge of one. The straw crackled under my touch, warm from the sunlight barely filtering through the dusty window.

Behind the cracked wooden counter, a full-length mirror reflected my distorted figure in its silvering surface. In one corner, an iron rack held more dusty hats, like ghosts of past elegance.

Then an older man appeared, smiling with lively eyes.
"Do you like them? They're from the last collection… last because there won’t be any more," he said, flashing a broad grin.

Six euros each.

"Hmm… What if I take two? How about eight euros for both?" I said, trying on another hat.

"Well, since it's a liquidation... deal!"

As I rummaged for my wallet inside my bag, he added slyly:

"Listen… if you want, I can give you a special price for fifty. Imagine, all matching or mixed! You could resell them!"

"Don’t tempt me!" I laughed. "What would I do with fifty sun hats? Set up a stall at the flea market and become the shop’s vendor?"

"Ah, you’ve got a business instinct!" he joked, winking. "I bet we could’ve made great deals together! You look like a saleswoman with style!"

With the hats under my arm and a knowing smile, I stepped out of the shop. Behind me, his hand rose in a wave, as if already calculating how long it would take for me to succumb to the charm of his bargains before the final closing.

 

The sun was already setting over the street when, with my new blue sun hat slightly tilted, I crossed the shop’s threshold again. The squeaky bell announced my entrance, and the vendor—that man with a cunning smile and quick hands—looked up from a pile of half-packed boxes.

"Aha! I knew you’d come back," he said, wiping his hands on his apron. "The forty-eight hats, then?"

"Don’t mock me… but yes," I admitted, pointing to the corner where the straw hats with faded ribbons still gleamed, stacked like treasures. "In the end, you convinced me." "Though I’m not sure if it was your smooth talk or me already picturing myself at the neighborhood festival market, shouting: ‘Fine sun hats, bringing joy and shade!’"

He burst out laughing as he took down the last models. "Ah, so you’re planning to set up a stall to sell them! That’s entrepreneurial spirit! And with your style, they’ll sell in no time!"

It had been a last-minute idea, sparked while my friends enthusiastically discussed the menu and decorations for the bar they’d set up during the neighborhood festival that weekend. Everyone had plans: beer, homemade tapas, live music... But the idea of serving drinks all night didn’t excite me. Then I remembered the shop and the straw hats. "What if I sell them?" I thought. A few boxes, a white sheet, and some planks, and I’d have my own little business at the festival.

Half an hour later, I left the shop with a tower of boxes tied with twine—too many to carry comfortably, but just enough for my plan.

The vendor called out from the doorway: "See you at the July fair!" as I, laughing, imagined myself at my stall, haggling with customers and this unexpected business I’d just bought for fifty euros.

 

The afternoon sun gilded the streets as I dismantled my improvised hat stall, surrounded by the buzz of the festival. Amid laughter, music, and the murmur of the crowd, the straw hats—elegant, with colorful ribbons and the occasional floral detail—had been the hit of the day. I’d sold all of them except one: a wide-brimmed model with a blue bow that, with a satisfied smile, I decided to keep for myself.

I folded the sheet carefully, stacked the boxes in a corner, and with the last sun hat on my head, headed toward the makeshift bar my friends had set up in the basement of an old house in the festival square, near where I’d set up my stall.

Upon arriving, the atmosphere was perfectly chaotic: plastic tables, lights clipped haphazardly, a beer keg on two sawhorses, and my friends serving drinks amid jokes, laughter, music, and the clinking of bottles—along with the occasional overindulgence.

"Here comes the saleswoman!" someone shouted as I walked in.

Tucked between the foundations of an old house in the square was the improvised bar. The entrance, half-hidden by a worn beaded curtain and a peeling wooden door, led to a refuge of low ceilings and exposed brick walls, dimly lit by two dangling lightbulbs.

The counter was a thick plank resting on sawhorses, stained with dried wax and glass rings, draped in black fabric that gave it a mysterious touch. Behind it, my friends bustled between the noise of the music, serving customers. Behind them, an old cupboard served as a shelf, packed with bottles and a wine barrel with a crooked tap that wouldn’t stop dripping. A cracked mirror on the wall reflected the patrons, distorting their smiles in its fissures.

The stools were overturned fruit crates, and the tables were recycled old wooden doors propped up by cement blocks. In one corner, a camping cooler hummed laboriously, filled with ice and sweaty beer cans. The air smelled of old dust, crushed mint in mojitos, and the thick smoke of a cigarette burning in a tin ashtray.

The place had once been a workshop owned by Paco’s father, a carpenter who worked for a funeral home. That’s why, tucked behind the door—placed there to stay out of the way—stood an old wooden coffin, almost hidden like just another piece of furniture. It was one of the items they’d had to move while cleaning the place to set up the bar.

"We can’t have this here, it’s in bad taste," Lucía had said when they were cleaning, eyeing the coffin warily.

"Don’t exaggerate, it’s just an old piece of furniture," Paco had laughed, pushing it toward the door. "If we stand it upright and hide it here, no one will see it."

He positioned it vertically between the door and the wall, making sure it stayed out of sight: "Done. Now it’s disappeared."

Outside in the square, salsa rhythms played, and though the basement walls muffled the sound, the trumpets from the band seeped through the cracks, blending with laughter and the clinking of ice cubes. Every so often, someone would stick their head in to shout:

"Hey, they’re playing a slow song!"—and half the bar would rush out to dance, leaving half-finished drinks on the tables.

"What’ll you have, Marise?" they asked as soon as I walked in.

I adjusted my sun hat and let myself be swept up in the party. The night promised sex and free love. "Want to do it with me? No? Fine, next time!"

I’d already had a few rounds of drinks and, without meaning to, was thoroughly tipsy. Amid laughter and toasts, in the height of the celebration, I felt the urgent need to use the bathroom.

"This is the life!" I shouted euphorically, raising my glass before swaying—then downed it in one gulp, set the empty glass on the counter, and went off to find the bathroom.

But between the alcohol and the dim lighting, I didn’t see clearly and, instead of heading to the bathroom, I stumbled toward the dark corner where the forgotten coffin stood. Without realizing it, I opened the wrong door and climbed inside the slightly ajar coffin.

"Damn. What a tiny bathroom!" I thought, confused.

The air was thick, smelling of old wood and stale varnish, and the alcohol turned everything into a drowsy haze.

I clumsily turned, brushing against the fabric lining inside. I tried to turn around and climb out, but every movement only wedged me deeper into the coffin. Between the heat, the absolute darkness, and the rhythm of the bar’s music, my eyelids grew heavy as tombstones, and the darkness and alcohol did the rest.

My last thought before passing out completely was: "At least there’s no line for this bathroom..." Then, with no resistance left, I wet myself right there, surrendering to the warmth I felt. And I remained curled up, snoring peacefully in the cramped darkness of the coffin.

Meanwhile, my friends started to worry.

"Where’s Marise? She’s been gone for over half an hour!"
"She’s probably puking in some corner," Marta said, brushing it off.

But soon, Lucía, the most superstitious of the group, paled:

"Guys… what if she got into the coffin?"

Everyone exchanged perplexed glances. Cautiously, Paco approached the corner and, sure enough, heard deep snores coming from inside the coffin.

"Marise!" he shouted, lifting the lid.

I blinked, disoriented.

"Why’d you wake me up?¡ Now that I was flirting with someone. I was dreaming good things!

!" I said, confused, rubbing my eyes.

My friends, torn between shock and amusement, didn’t know whether to hug me or run away.

"Anyone want another beer…?"

The whole bar erupted in laughter. Soon, people were lining up to take selfies inside the coffin as "modern-day corpses"—making it the must-have photo of the night.

I took my own selfie inside the coffin that night, and whenever I see it, it reminds me that the best adventures aren’t in novels or books—they happen any day in real life.

 

mvf