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The other night, at the end of a day’s work, I stopped a taxi in the middle of a traffic jam, threw my bag, slumped in the seat, said “hello” and the street where I was going, I began to look at my cell phone and, as soon as it started, , the taxi driver goes and tells me: “How was your day?” I was stunned with confidence. “Have we met?” I asked, fixing my eyes on his in the mirror, from where he looked at me with what seemed like genuine interest. “No, as far as I know, he was just trying to be nice,” he replied, putting me in my place. Only then did I notice the driver. A guy between 40 and 50, receding hair combed into a plow towards the nape of the neck, polo shirt cutting off the circulation of his gym arms and a profusion of bracelets with the Spanish flag: the complete package to go straight to the drawer of my prejudices. I replied that my day is fine, thank you, how was yours and, to my surprise, the guy came and told me.
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