January 27, 2014 §
He hasn’t spoken to anyone since months. He speaks every day but to no one in particular. Spoken silence. In the mirror this other man.
There’s insecurity in her steps. She slows down, she stops. I’ve been here before, she thinks. Have I run in circles? Her maps are burned.
She draws the curtains exactly at 5pm every evening. That in winter. In the summer she must bear the light longer while the night ripens.
His first day at the office. He spent it with one palm open on the desk. He liked the cold surface. He liked touching.
“The warmth of his palm leaving a print of his hand on the cold desk, before it too disappeared. No record of his existence.” by @countersilence
Our thoughts are obvious to others and a mystery to us, she thought. Otherwise you wouldn’t know what I’m thinking, would you?
It’s easy to forget death, he whispered in her ear. It’s the life before death we can’t forget.
One more day.
She drew the curtains.
He liked promising things. Everybody nowadays was against promises. But for him they were his own footprints on the snow to follow. No risk.
He’d promised to be back for dinner. The snow outside was getting thicker. She watched the parked cars disappearing. Willingly.
We all like hiding, she thought. Not to be seen is a great sensation. We’re always in a picture. That’s so tiring.
My hands are cold. I’ve used all my breaths. My cheeks are red, my eyes are glowing, the evening is turning blue.
This snow is going to melt very soon, and people can see me again: dirty, lonely, a stranger. I better go back.
He came back holding his own photograph in his hands. A proof of being. An expat knows that we consist of photos other people have seen.
She had chosen a poem to welcome him back. She stood in the doorway. Birds were flying in formation. Their voices threw shadows on the snow.
But he didn’t come.