“Lupe, you have a son?”
“My son died,” said Lupe, fixing me with her gaze.
“But how old are you, then?”
Lupe smiled at me. Her smile was big and pretty. “How old do you think I am?”
I was afraid to guess, and I didn’t say anything. María put her arm around Lupe’s shoulders. The two of them looked at each other and smiled or winked, I’m not sure which.
“A year younger than María. Eighteen.”
“We’re both Leos,” said María.
“What sign are you?” said Lupe.
“I don’t know. I’ve never paid much attention to that kind of thing, to tell the truth.”
“Well, then you’re the only person in Mexico who doesn’t know his own sign,” said Lupe.
“What month were you born, García Madero?” said María.
“January, the sixth of January.”
“You’re a Capricorn, like Ulises Lima.”
“The Ulises Lima?” Lupe said.
I asked her whether she knew him, afraid they would tell me that Ulises Lima went to the dance school too. For a microsecond, I saw myself dancing on tiptoe in an empty gym.
Roberto Bolaño, The Savage Detectives
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