Lucy, that's her name. She had a kid, was married twice and died on August 7 last year. She could have died of a liver intoxication or because of smoking in such a nasty way that a complete army of cleandrills would have left the waste-pack before she did, but she had been clever and sweet, as far as I knew, and for a reason no one else could have imagined she got killed. I killed her. It hadn't been my intention to kill her but I did. Officers and people of duty quite often have a different approach of such matter and I must admit that I took care of the opproach they have. The killing had no other feed than the feed it had. Must I admit, in a decent way or not, enjoying the taste of a tempranillo, balanced beyond knowledge, that actually I am the one who had to be killed, maybe. I don't think so. Death has been committed with all the pleasures it offers. Lucy, which may have been her real name, had a certain amount of habits. We never got married, there was no reason to get married, but we had sex and I loved her. She had strange habits though. It didn't take the measure of a volume of serious and delicate thoughts to know that I had to take care to get rid of that. Once a week, on Tuesdays and on Tuesday only, we had spaghetti. It took a month to get to the point how that spaghetti had to be made, as Lucy didn't want anything else but that spaghetti, prepared with sliced oignon, porc meat, prefab tomatoe sauce and a gentle touch of garlic, which anyway attracted my attention to all the variations it had. Porc meat is one thing, I thought.
I started to look around, on the main floor, upstairs, if there wasn't anything else. Soon after I started to hate Tuesdays. Spaghetti on Tuesday was not the only habit she had. She worked at Harford's University, cleaning the bathroom. Silly, I always have known that she did far more than just cleaning bathrooms. Academic practice offers opportunities with any sort of thing far beyond that sort of practice.