She couldn’t understand a word of what he was saying. She was staring at him but it seemed to her to see a stranger. No, that one wasn’t the man that she knew, the man that made her go crazy, the man that involved her in a passionate love. The man that she knew was self-confident , sometimes even bold. Who was that person with the head hanging down, tapping his fingers on the table? He was saying something about clothes that didn’t fit, things that didn’t match. She still had her iPhone in her hand. She could read the comment on her last post “wonderful” . Everything was clear now. After a long time she had started writing again and lately it seemed that an increasing number of people was interested in what she wrote. With some of them she had a particular affinity.
“So this is the matter!” He raised his head and nodded.
“Oh, my God! Why?” A sense of frustration hit her like a stone that had been violently thrown on her.
“I’ve read all the messages and the comments” He said
“Obviously, I’ve never hidden them” She retorted promptly.
“There’s a special harmony, it seems that you all think the same things”
She smiled “ We don’t think the same things, we share our passion. For us Joyce, Dostoevsky, Kerouac, Balzac and all the writers from all over the world speak the language of our love for words. That’s the harmony that you see. “
“I’m out of this harmony” He said while twiddling with the lighter.
“Yes, you are out of this harmony , but we have another kind of harmony”
“We are too different” He added.
“Thanks God we are different! I’d never love someone who is similar to me. What boring! We perceive most of the things in life through opposites. Differences can only bring out our qualities. When we met I was weary, I was hiding myself. You gave me the reason to show the real me and the real me loves writing. It’s natural that I like to share this passion and I like when people appreciate what I’m writing. You should understand me. You bet your life on a dream. If you could keep on dreaming it was because there were people who loved the things you did. Your passion now is your profession. Don’t you share it with other people? What’s the aim of doing something just for yourself? Writing isn’t my profession and , probably it will never be but I love writing and there’s nothing wrong with it. And if someone likes what I write I’m happy. But you are my treasure, nothing can compare to you”
He had been in silence for all that time watching an indefinite point on the table “Am I your treasure? It doesn’t seem since you’re so absorbed by writing that I have to join the line of your fans to have some attention” He pronounced these words very quietly.
“What are you saying? I haven’t got fans and you are always my first thought” She was answering but she didn’t understand why he said those words.
“I think that we can’t go on together. You’ll find someone else who will be the right person for you” He spoke these words looking straight in her eyes.
“Why?” she asked almost crying. He stood up and went away.