My wife has always wanted to have her own apartment. And maybe because I asked her to marry me before she could guess, she has never had it. She wanted to have her own space in perfect order, with her things —everything— in its best place and in the best possible way, as only some women (and only men with some sort of psychopathy) know how.
Sometimes she tells me that, even though we have our own home, in the future she will have her own apartment. And maybe I will be invited (I must say I cook a wonderful omelette) or not (I'm a healthy man, rude and messy). Now I'm afraid that if this perfect house does not find a tenant soon, one morning she will leave home early and will rent it under a false name.
And I will go there every day to knock on her door and spend an afternoon with her ... My Gala in its little-Púbol, my Marie Antoinette from the neighborhood.
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Subway: (L3) Lesseps, (L4) Joanic.
Bus: 24, 32, 39, H6.