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I stare at the crumbling paint, then straight ahead at the bathroom mirror. I can´t see myself, being in a sitting position, but my eyes wander anyway looking for something to focus on. We haven´t had problems with the water supply since the flooding of the control room under Plaza Mitre many months ago. Even then, Parque Luro was spared any real inconvenience. When I can get online, the OSSE website is always up and running - blue and white and orange with rather strange fonts announcing changes to the pubic waterworks program in detailed administrative language. I have begun to obsess about water, where munincipalities source their drinking water, how it´s distributed, whether electricity is needed for the system to work properly. Reading about the power cuts in South Africa made me worry, but so far the water runs fine in Mar del Plata and tastes a hell of a lot better than the metallic stew you get in Buenos Aires. But heating it is another thing. I daydream about rigging up small wind turbines on the roof and hooking up electric water heaters and wall units. Unfortunately Garbarino is charging a fortune for electric heaters. And the paint on the bathroom ceiling keeps crumbling. They say grief hits you when you least expect it and it hits me right now. A memory of father´s grizzled jaw ( he´d shave twice a week maximum ) and I´m weeping out of control. His crooked silly grin. The bright optimistic ache in Mother´s voice. I shouldn´t hurt like this; they lived long full lives and I shared a lot of it with them. A wretching gasp, another messy flood of tears. I guess it´s real now. It´s pathetic but I don´t give a fuck. It´s also a relief if I´m honest about it.

I shift over to the bidet - a simple uitilitarian convenience and nothing to do with the luxury products in North America - and clean up. At the sink washing my face I hear Isadora. Had she been at the bathroom door earlier?

Loco ... are you ok?

The ridiculous queston we all recognize as ridiculous even as we ask it. We know they´re not ok, but we want in to their world; to be there with them even if we can´t much help. Or maybe she´s worried I´ll puke all over the bathroom floor and she´ll have to clean up after me. She slowly slides open the bathroom door as I pull up my underwear, the elastic stretched from repeated washings, and then pull up my LL Bean´s jeans. She hesitates then tries to hug me just as I bend down to light some incense - a courtesy Isadora has accustomed me to. So her elbow catches my forehead and I curse and then start crying again and stumble into the hallway where I squat with my back to the wall.

Amor ... I´m sorry!!

She´s beside me now and successfully hugging me, although she has to kneel and her right knee is pressing against my ankle. She lets go and lights the cigarette she was holding in her left hand. She slides down to sit beside me and I realize that she never made it to Anses and her CUIT application will be further delayed. Anger bursts through the constant weight of financial worries that burden us and I spit out,

When the fuck are you going to get your CUIT?? You know it would make everything easier!

Isadora smokes calmly. Her eyes don´t go dark and dangerous ... yet. Sometimes she really does want to be scolded. And sometimes she explodes and throws twice as much back in my face. Not literally. We don´t throw objects at each other. Just hurriedly improvised psychological dissections, or comments on family members or past sins. You know. Like any loving couple. But it wears me down. When to cede and when to fight. She takes another drag and tries to direct the smoke away from me but the breeze from Oriana´s room blows it right back in my face. Mar del Plata is very wndy, especially when you live right on the coast. She looks at me to see if I´m finished.

Greta was feeling down.
I thought Irma was the one going through a rough patch.
Yes ... anyway, we decided ...
Of course. Did you win anything?
Almost, I was one short of a bingo twice!
Aha ... and the girls? Any luck?
Irma had a winning line!

Ok, in Spanish it´s literally, Irma sang a line. But that doesn´t quite work in English does it? I can´t get mad. It´s her money she´s spending even if it´s ours at the same time. And the occasional bingo game with her mother and Irma does her good. At least that´s how I justify her gambling our grocery money away. And every now and then she sings a line so to speak. When she doesn´t buy clothes or shoes, we buy groceries. We both sit in silence and listen to the wind rattle the shutters gently. I hope the candle in the bathroom stays lit.

The hall light clicks on. The refrigerator starts humming and our computer clicks on and starts rebooting. We both sit and blink at the added light and then Isadora is first to her feet and moves quickly towards the stained blue office chair. She waits for the rebooting to finish so she can open my Paypal account. I shuffle into the kitchen and fill the kettle and place it on the woodstove. If the gas supply issue isn´t worked out with Bolivia I´ll have to keep using it even when the weather gets warm. I sometimes wonder if Rojas is deliberately keeping the supply down to a trickle seeing our rent includes natural gas. Gaton has had trouble stocking Rosamonte for some reason and we´ve had to settle for Cruz de Malta with it´s neutral woody flavor. I fill the small metal cup a little more than halfway ( Isa scolds me continuously for overfilling the mate ) and insert the metal straw into the dry crumbled leaves. Fortunately the woodstove is still hot and the kettle should boil soon. Do we have any sticky croissants left? Isadora lets out a sharp little shout of glee.

Loco! You sold 42 CD´s! We can download 300 dollars to your bank account!!