Micaela Arguello
The mornings are the hardest. I still wake up at six, like I used to when I had the kiosk. Old habits. I lie there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the city sounds to swell—collectivo brakes, dogs barking, the neighbor's gate slamming shut. It’s all still there, Buenos Aires, Argentina, moving forward, but I’m not a part of it anymore.
A few years ago, I ran a small kiosk on the corner of Defensa and Humberto Primo. It wasn’t big—just enough space for cigarettes, newspapers, sweets, and conversation. That’s what I really sold, I think: conversation. I knew everyone. The school kids who came for gum. The older men who bought the Clarín just to complain about it. Even the couple from the bakery who argued in whispers.
But when Ernesto died, things slipped. He managed the papers and the numbers. I handled the people. Without him, everything felt heavier—closing the metal shutters, restocking, even counting the coins. And the loneliness crept in, slow and quiet, like the cold in winter.
I'm 72 now. I live in a small flat in Constitución. It’s not terrible. I have my savings, and my children help me. They say I shouldn’t worry, that I should rest. But I don’t want to rest—I’ve rested enough. I want to talk to people again. I want someone to hand me a ten-peso coin and ask about the weather.
Most days I sit by the window with a mate, watching life happen below me. My daughter wants me to join some group for older women that meets at the church hall. I went once. They were nice, but I didn’t belong. They talked about television shows and knitting. I wanted to talk about my Ernesto, about the kiosk, about the feeling of unlocking it just before sunrise and hearing the first bus rumble by.
Sometimes I wonder if people remember me. The woman with the short white hair and the apron, who always had change for a twenty. Maybe they do. Or maybe they don’t.
What I miss most is not the money or even the work. It’s the rhythm. The smell of ink on fresh newspapers. The daily jokes. The way Ernesto used to lean in and whisper a silly comment about a customer, just to make me laugh. That laugh hasn’t come out of me in a long time.