The first time Don Agustin saw that female pilgrimage through the village, he felt the gastric juices rising up and he wanted, at that moment, to be 20 years younger. Under a mango tree, the man with the gray hair and easy smile, halfway through a trick play, tried to keep his eyes on the white pieces arranged on the table and in his hands. Amalia's laughter was like a bird's song, like a fresh, sweet coconut waterfall. It was not Amalia's fine manners nor her discretion. She seemed to be a hurricane all by herself. Her way of walking, her hair down in the air, her plentiful breasts in the air, looked like little brown caged in her blouse.

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Augustine approached her at the end of that August afternoon amidst the laughter and wet steam of those hours. First he pretended not to want the thing, then in a gentlemanly way and with a premeditated behavior, he approached him as surgeons do when they operate on their patients: calm and without nerve. He wanted to offer her an ice cream. Two: one for me and one for my friend," said Amalia, laughing with all the mischief in the world. Augustine never saw whiter teeth and a more tender mouth. His old heart, already accustomed to unsalted foods, almost felt the taste of that smile, of those lips. In the end it was two ice creams, two pieces of cake, two sodas and the taxi fare. But already at night, Augustine's body was vibrant and that made him feel young, energetic, and full of life.

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The afternoons of play were now the date he had been waiting for. The girls around Amalia went and told Don Agustin: Amalia wants a soda, she is hungry, they are selling food, she wants it, she needs it. The man did not spare any attention or gifts. In exchange, the female walked around with her swaying waves, like a fine mare, while Augustine's sixty-year-old friends, patting him on the shoulder, reaffirmed their envy.

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It was Amalia caressed by the eyes, desired by Augustine's saliva. From afar, the man wanted to explore all her dimples, her surface. He wanted to feel that his manhood was imprisoned by the palate of that inatrapable Amazon, that his legs were delayed over his bones, filling it with his natural juices. Meanwhile, Amalia let herself be loved from afar: every step of her was an intimacy, a delicious rudeness. The ritual of smiles, of mischievous eyes, of the sea breeze of loose hair, came to him. Dazzling then were the puddles of Don Agustin when he arrived home, rejuvenated, as all the sap emanated from his body.

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But one afternoon the minutes were slow for Augustine who did not see Amalia arrive. He was afraid to ask, but he did: Amalia had run away with her boyfriend. Sensing the consummation, he paled in defeat and humiliation, and understanding the imprisonment of his feelings, he felt like shouting and stopping that game, but he did not. That afternoon, amidst crazy laughter and bitter drinks, Augustine lost that game, while he felt how all the years of the world were falling upon him.

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Despite the end of this story, love is a game in which we can also win. I hope you have a happy Valentine's Day. I remind you that you can vote for @adsactly as a witness and join our server in discord. Until the next smile. ;)