A YOUNG MAN WAS coming from work on his lunch break, around eleven in the morning. He had to have lunch earlier than others because of his marginalized position in the office. If he was eating at the same time as everyone else, how was he supposed to fulfill his duties? Someone had to sacrifice.

     Luckily for him, he didn't feel like it was a great sacrifice. What bothered him a bit, though, was how others already considered him less just because of that stereotyped concept. It didn't make sense; after all, it was his job, and he saw nothing wrong with it. He would never understand the strangeness behind his colleagues' thoughts, let alone why everyone seemed to find the idea acceptable. But well, it's lunchtime, not argument time.

     He used to buy tacos somewhere nearby, but never paid attention to the local's name. Today was different. For some reason, it was closed, and he didn't feel like getting fast food from the place on the other corner. He simply didn't feel like it.

     He had spent the morning in a meditative state, as if something was wrong, but he had no idea what it could be. It was a very light feeling, barely distinguishable. It descended through his chest like a sensation similar to nostalgia when he thought about his family and how much he missed living with them. It's not that he wasn't happy living alone and enjoying the benefits that it brings, but he was very close to his family, and he couldn't help but miss them from time to time.

     Ah, that must be it! It must be some kind of nostalgia episode, one of those that hit for no reason just because you happened to remember something that makes you overly sentimental. Maybe a homemade lunch would make him feel better.

     Without questioning it further, he waited for a taxi to go to his house, which was in a small neighborhood not far away, and prepare a dish like the ones he had learned to make with his grandmother. Something that wouldn't take much time.

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     "Doña* Camelia, open the door!"

     "Comadre*, what's happening?"

     "You have to let me in! I can't tell you out here."

     Mrs. Camelia, very puzzled, let her neighbor in. The lady had arrived at her door in a flurry. They didn't usually interact much, just exchanging a few words like "good morning" or "how are you," "good, and you?" "good, thank God," which was enough for them.

     Their most significant gatherings had been when Mrs. Rogelia, a former neighbor, had arrived solely to cause discord. She would come out every morning to inspect her yard and complain about everything. She pruned it, she complained; she watered it, she complained; she looked at it, she complained. She just couldn't let the yard exist peacefully!

     At this point, it didn't bother anyone, but the real problem arose when complaining seemed not to be enough for her. One morning, she simply decided to get up and unleash her hatred for the whole world from house to house. They thought she was a little crazy, and maybe she was, so they tried to ignore her irrational bad mood.

     Until one day, they couldn't take it anymore. They thought it would pass, but it came with a lasting attitude, and that was not okay.

     As good neighbors and acquaintances of the calm neighborhood, Camelia and Orfelia joined forces to convince, scare, remove that thorn from their feet, the cause of morning annoyances, at any cost. Their efforts had been successful. After sprinkling some extra spicy dust from Don Chaim's special reserve on her hammock and arguing back and forth all morning, it was enough for her to give up staying in that place.

     There was also a situation with a neighbor whose donkey scattered excrement everywhere, but that would be a longer story. The important thing here is that when they gathered, it was for something extremely serious; otherwise, they were just the quiet, elderly ladies of the neighborhood.

     That's why the arrival of Mrs. Orfelia surprised Mrs. Camelia so much. As far as she knew, there was no need to join forces to kick out some noisy neighbor, so what could be the problem that had brought her to her door so exasperated?

     She served her a glass of water and invited her to sit on the beige sofa in her living room, expectant of what she might tell her next.

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* Doña: n. (Spanish) Miss, referring to a married woman, or just an old lady.

* Comadre: n. (Spanish) Godmother, but most women use it to refer to a friend their age.