Óscar Cerezo was born in Madrid in the summer of 1978, although fate decided that his favorite season was autumn. Tireless creator, he is the author of Making love with words, with four editions that support its success, and his current work El Mercader de Sentimientos, where he shows a mature version of his writing, with his own style. Óscar Cerezo combines his profession as a Policeman and responsibility as a father with his sentimental literary art, where as always he shows an open heart.
Again, the neighbor across the street has spit on his door, says that the cat on the windowsill bothers him and that it sneaks onto his terrace.
Mrs. Pepi is a widow and has lived alone for twelve years, Zeus, her cat, is her only company and when she sees the open window she goes out to walk along the edge of the wall and mark the corners. Then he sits like a gargoyle and closes his eyes while basking in the sun.
After cleaning the spittle from the door, Mrs. Pepi sets aside the ball and knitting needles, turns on the radio and removes the dust accumulated from one day to all the figures in the room, the photos of her children, her grandchildren and her The late husband goes through the glass in the display cases, the porcelain dog, and shakes out the crocheted cloths that she makes herself. There are cloths on the skay triplet, on the large table, under the wheel telephone, on the bedside tables in the bedroom, and on the hall closet. When the house is aired Mrs. Pepi opens a can of tuna, Zeus enters without making a noise while she closes the blinds and goes out to buy at the market. When you return, your neighbor has knocked over an ashtray on the doormat. Mrs. Pepi sweeps the ash from the entrance, closes the door, turns on the radio, takes the ball of yarn, the needles and begins to knit.
On Palm Sunday, Mrs. Pepi, after ventilating the house, cleaning the figures, shaking off the cloths and opening a can of tuna, gets dressed to go to mass. Black flats, knee-length stockings, skirt, shirt and a shawl that she has knitted herself. In rigorous mourning he perfumes his neck and wrists, opens the door and goes downstairs. In the doorway, next to the mailboxes, he runs into his neighbor, his beard is several days old, he wears a wrinkled Super Babes T-shirt and jeans with bulbs. In one of her hands she holds a green bag and inside two bottles clink. They look at each other, but Mrs. Pepi doesn't say anything, she turns away although she can't help but smell her neighbor, hear how he insults her cat Zeus and the threats that if he steps on his terrace again, he will skin him like a rabbit. Mrs. Pepi goes out into the street, walks to the church, listens to the psalm and confesses her sins, picks up the olive branch and returns home, on the door they have written with something sharp, "fucking cat."
Mrs. Pepi removes the dried bouquet from last year and puts the new one in, fastens it with wires to the railing of the terrace and crosses herself, puts the dry branches among the garbage. She puts away her skirt and shirt, takes off her slippers, stockings and puts on her home dress, apron, and goes into the living room. Take the ball of yarn, the needles and the half-made cloth. He goes out on the landing, reads again, "fucking cat" and rings the neighbor's bell. After a few seconds the door opens, smells of onion and vinegar. The neighbor yells at her that what does she want, the old flame, where is she going with the crochet cloth and ends the sentence with the words “fucking cat”. Mrs. Pepi doesn't say anything, she just looks at him, observes his every expression, the tartar on his teeth, his hooked tone of voice and holding the crochet needle tightly through his eye until the skull stops its inertia. The neighbor stumbles and stains his face, neck and clothing, falling backwards splashes the wall, the floor and begins to shake. Mrs. Pepi closes the neighbor's door with the crocheted cloth and looks at her door, the marks are not deep. Clean the needle on the pile, put the radio on, open the window and start knitting.