He had spent a wonderful evening with her. A chat and much more. They knew long ago. Not really all the 400 blows, but shared some special moments. The preciousness of these things is not measured by the yardstick of what we can tell, nothing unusual there, except that one may think the strength of a strengthened relationship with moments. Rather it was their relationship, an accumulation of moments taken from the daily lives. So when they found themselves, surreptitiously returned the waterwheel glasses bus, the cohort sacrificed minutes around a table, the theory of rustling and words exchanged. Neither one nor the other could not clearly express why such moments, even if one had any use in any field whatsoever. They found out they were good together and that was enough. Until this evening. In summary, it was similar to others. Nothing new in that routine. As a habit. It came back, that's all. Again. Yet when he left home, he sensed that some of the moments that skated their common chord was not usual consistency. Thus he spoke in petto this unsettling feeling. Looking more willing these things, he noticed the strangeness of certain gestures, certain phrases, on the cruelty of some silence, then a few, very rare indeed, lasted longer than usual. It is especially these silences, this lack of words at such moments as he applied himself. He saw at least three. Maybe before they were already lurking between two sentences, this time when they appeared with a rawness that surprised. What, then, were these silences? Not that he looked for the slightest use to things experienced, but still, there had to be a reason for qu'arrivent things. Reason enough? Perhaps for reasons. And defining the term strange he realized what he had in mind. Two reasons. What binds. Intimate knowledge of each other. His tastes, his desires, his smell, his way of taking a drink and bring it to itself, two bodies who exult in a large bath of words. This eroticism had appeared long before this evening, but he never acquired the dough, this reality. The coiled rope, is shortened too much twist, coiled around itself, clung to every moment, for these crumbs in square brackets and bumps, holes and bumps, a landscape that itself was born in great vacuum of between-them-two. The existing space before them and asked only to fill them. And he expressed this strange idea after all love is perhaps a peculiarity of the space that ... So that was it. Everything was empty of love. And he dared not think. Saying he was never good to say love between two hemispheres. That it was between four eyes. Tomorrow. He would see tomorrow. To be sure.
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