Читать книгу The President’s Room - Ricardo Romero - Страница 16

My little brother has a fever again. He’s been in bed since yesterday. Right behind me, all wrapped up, watching as I sit writing at my desk. ‘What are you writing?’ he asks. ‘I’m writing that while I’m writing you’re watching me write’, I say without turning around. ‘I’m not watching you’, he replies. I turn around and see him watching me, his eyes wide and shining with fever. If we were good brothers, we’d both laugh at this point. But we’re not good brothers. We don’t laugh together. I can’t remember if we’ve ever laughed together, at the same time. We never give each other the giggles, any more than we give each other our illnesses. My big brother doesn’t count, because he doesn’t laugh or get ill.