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| | mardi, octobre 05, 2004

That night I dreamed about us. It was our first date in a big café with loud music and people talking all around us.
"Let’s play a game," I say.
"Alright, what?"
"A conversation in which every word is essential. Nothing obsolete. Direct expression of feelings and thoughts. No hesitation. Are you ready for that?"
She takes a cigarette from the pack on the table and lights it clumsily, bending her head toward the lighter. Shy.
"Ok."she says.” You start."
Concentrate. Break the ice. It’s not as easy as I thought.
It flashes through my head. I want to spit out the passion, the complexity and the feelings I have for her in one clear moment, that will be remembered by both of us with the same intensity. It seems the most important thing to do: to create a memory that embodies everything we can be. We are both wounded animals, bruised by others. We bargain hard, knowing that every deception brings along more of that inevitable wisdom of life that leads only to death and end.
I can’t think of any thing to say. I look around at the people moving and talking and the more I look the more desperate I get.
When I look back at her, eyes down, she is sliding thumb and index finger along the foot of her wine glass nervously, anticipating. It hits me with such a blast. The delicacy of her, of the movement. I want her more than anything, that instant.

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