The Adam Boy

CHAPTER 29 - THE SERMON

Daylight hit my eyes and bothered me like never before. I opened only one eye. My head exploded as if it were being crushed by a tractor. With difficulty, my vision came to the familiar window of Brigadeiro's apartment. I closed my eyes again. My head throbbed with pain. The bed, which had often been comfortable and soft, was now hard and cold. I felt that I was wearing only a pair of underwear and a tank top, which I felt and realized that it was a piece of my clothing, which I no longer remembered existed. My mouth was dry, and so was my stomach. I pulled the heavy comforter to cover myself and the aroma of the well-known perfume entered my nostrils, leaving me with a strong malaise and causing me to get up so fast that I had time to throw up all over the floor.

- Good Morning! - said my colleague from Brigadeiro who had just entered the room. I remain there, with my head down, exploding like never before, still very bad. It was only when I was sure that nothing else would come out of me that I looked at him leaning against the door. His figure was potent with the light coming from the corridor against him. He seemed to be taller and stronger than he is. I was serious, very serious. He wore sleep shorts and a white tank top. I felt movements in the bed and turned around: Janine also slept there in the double bed. And by snoring I wouldn't wake up anytime soon.

I remained silent. I didn't want to move, because any movement in my head gave answers with unbearable hammering.

- Why did you drink so much, little boy?

Your question was in vain, because there was no answer.

"Come," he said again. - Come take a shower.

As he saw that I was not getting up, I don't know if because he couldn't do it, or out of laziness, he came to me and took my arm, helping me to get up. With my head down I walked in front, being held by the shoulder. Janine's snores grew farther and farther away as I left the room. When I came out in the hall, I saw a piece of the wine couch in the living room. On top of it was a blanket; Brigadeiro's colleague should have slept there. He opened the bathroom door and we entered.

"I think you better wear a blouse of mine," he said. - The ones you have here are not very comfortable and are more to work with.

There, standing, disheveled, in swim trunks and tank tops, I started to cry.

- Come on! What is it, little boy? Why are you crying?

- Do not know!

- I know you're not cool, but are you feeling anything more than the hangover?

- Not! Is nothing. I just want to cry - I replied, going towards the toilet and sitting on it. Always with my head down with so much pain.

I was going to be 22 that month, and I could count on my fingers how many times I had cried. But at that moment I cried because I had no reason, because I wanted to ... And it was good ... It's good to cry when there is no reason ... You don't suffer, because there is no reason ... There is no joy, because there is no reason that ... it's just crying ... for no reason ...

- Ah! Then stop crying. Damn, it sucks to see you crying.

I should have been horrified: With a hangover, disheveled, with eye drops, which were now swollen from crying for nothing, reeking of vomit and drink, and sitting on a toilet. My colleague approached me and his perfume gave me a new spurt of discomfort that made me leave the toilet, open the lid and throw up I don't know what was left in my stomach. Now the scene should be more bizarre, because, in addition to having all the characteristics mentioned above, now I was hugging the vase with my face inside it vomiting. While doing my job, my colleague left and came back with a mug of coffee. He crouched down beside me, mug in hand. I still had my face in the toilet, lying on the floor and my head to the point that I couldn't take it.