Because it was not easy to come back. She knew she would not. That is already starting the impossibility of return, and the lack of desire, - never to return, to avoid returning to the visibility of the return. She stayed a few days locked up as if she had not returned. Folded in his deformed body, moreover, that it does not escape out of it, not right now, for the keep a little tucked in her
- it would be like a child without birth. She knew from
was already never to return. There was this desire in her to disappear, and nobody would know. It would not be somehow or it would be very far without anything that precedes it, without the pictures hanging behind her, stuck to it, a cloud that wraps up another make.
He said it is part time. By dint of being part perhaps he would not have forgotten, but the lack of it would have been almost forgotten, something close to oblivion. It
knew he had not missed much, to see him again, until they saw that nothing had changed perhaps after a long absence, and increasingly confident that it would be more for her, the distance of absence, and sometimes evenings spent together, let alone to drown, to forget that they had talked a lot before, they were able to forget about. She said she thought they had lost, she thought it was too late, too much silence, he had vanished into silence, cut off somewhere where it was no more, where she thought nothing more, he disappeared before she left turn with the desire never to return, she thought he had disappeared because it was done in a way, it became another, a stranger to her, foreign to him who had loved her very much, like a brother or others, in a way that would belong to them, which would not have a name for itself really.
Seven o'clock, you realize, that speaks to the cafe, and it seems scarcely an hour passed.
She smiled a little, she did not realize either, seven hours, talking in a cafe in this city full of familiarity ad nauseam, seven hours, sat beside him, his smell, his cigarette that spreads over her, she almost wanted to cry, to indulge in his arms, it's like They never had stopped.
She came in believing it hurt her a little more, she would say nothing, he would not know she was injured, she realizes now that he would have known, that the knew too much not to know, he was the only likely understand his silence, to understand the silence of distance, the silence of the injury, and other silences still, the silence of his wishes, when the silence it was a bit happy when they did not need to speak to say.
Later we will marry. I know you can not be anything but alone. You will be alone, and then we will marry.
She smiled a little again, as there are remnants of distance, a strange persistence of absence for too long, something that caught her, gently, it felt like crying, no sadness, it is the familiarity of his face , washed his face which made foreign and distant-found-her face.
