I have gone to the Kiskunlachaza Cultural Center. The next bus to Budapest won't be here for more than an hour. A Gypsy family sits at the next table. The patriarch is making faces and waving at me. I wave back, smile, and ignore him. My wife appears and sits down next to me.
- What are you doing here? You just threw me out.
- I'm going to Budapest. I thought you'd be here.
- What do you want?
- I'd rather be a prostitute than married to you.
- You came here to tell me that?
- You're an embarrassment. You do nothing.
- You knew who I was when you married me.
- I know better now.
- You mean you think you have better chances elsewhere. You'll change your mind. You always do.
- Not this time.
- What are you doing here?
- You want me to leave?
- You'd rather be a prostitute than married to me. Being married to me is just as shameful, and isn't paid.
- I don't know who you are. I come home and there you are in my house. And what do you do? What are you?
- I read. I'm a reader. I sit in a chair and read.
- A reader? Yes, that is something.
