Dave was seated in a dimly lit corner by the mirror. Around him snappily dressed porteño waiters served medialunas to fashionable touristas amid the ornate surroundings of Café Tortino, the oldest coffee shop in the city. He pressed his cell phone against his ear and ignored the milieu.
"Hello," said the American voice on the other end, an elderly lady by the sound of it, "Suicide Prevention hotline. My name is Judy."
Dave took a deep, weary sigh and gazed deeply into his café con leche.
"Can I help you?" Judy asked.
He gave the table next to him a sideways glance, but nobody was eavesdropping. "I'm thinking about killing myself. Maybe you can convince me not to."
"Do you have a plan?"
"Sure. I'll jump in front of the Subte tonight. But I'm waiting until the last train, so that I don't affect too many people. I'll be polite about it."
"Where are you?"
"Far away. I didn't want to call anyone who could actually intervene."
"Why do you want to throw yourself in front of a train, sir?"
"Oh, the old cliché--I've lost everything. My money. My business. Poof. Gone. Like they never existed. And...before that...my fiancé. I thought I was over that, but...still--" He accidentally caught sight of his misery reflected in the mirror and was momentarily silenced by it. Then: "Anyway, all of those are details. What I see now is that it was stupid, stupid, stupid and I think maybe death is preferable to pointless...pointless...pointlessness."
