Mine not!

Oyo-yoy! Gracia looked like Summercase. Gin bottles, on the floor, empty, next to the bottles, also empty, of three-quarters of tonic. Those plastic bottles you buy when you foresee that you will prepare many gin and tonics and that, therefore, you will finish it, because it is well known; open tonic, in the fridge, eventually loses its fizz. And plastic cups, also empty, with a slice of lemon inside. The botellón-tender, who is the barman of the botellón, worked hard...

The temperature of the two nights of the weekend, the first without a curfew after months, it must be said, was wonderful. There were restaurants open on Sunday night and those who had not planned it could not find a table. The beach was full of young people in a circle eating chips, smoking and drinking. Some had brought those little lights that are sold in bazaars and run on batteries.

But today there are other circles. Circles of adults at the institute door, or next to the coffee machine at work, or on the terraces of bars: "Not mine, mine doesn't smoke, nor drink, because he doesn't like it," you say. "At home we have already told him: 'if you want to try it, try it with us', but he tells us no, that his friends do smoke and drink, but he doesn't." And your friend replies: "Yes, mine, neither. Mine is the only one in the group who hasn't tried joints, the others, yes, all of them. She says she doesn't want to. And she doesn't like alcohol." And your friend responds: "Neither do mine. The older one tried it and didn't like it. And the younger one says she doesn't want to, that she already knows that alcohol doesn't allow the brain to develop. And that if one day she tries a joint she will tell me."

And in all, all the circles today there are adults who say "Not mine." And they are right, surely, because I am. Theirs is not. It's always everyone else's.