which sounds, for some reason, dear Adele, victorious-empty. Pyrrhic, almost. Like the boy she found can make her happy, but he can't take the gloom out of her. Oye, overreading. Nothing in the text suggests so. But the tone, the tone. Going for calm, obviously, and maybe smugness, but crossing over to something else. A ewan.
There is always someone
At some point, the city becomes his lover, traffic his lullaby, torrential rain a surprise burst of emotions running down pavements, its damp cheeks. He tells the driver his destination, a word meaning intelligent, then a big hospital as additional clue. But in the coffee shop he cups the warmth like the concave of someone’s mouth and the city beyond the sweaty glass becomes a memory. There is always someone in the vicinity whose warmth he thinks of: the one behind the expensive laptop, the one buried in books, the one who is always there, in that spot near the terra cotta pots, as familiar as the various routes available in case of flooding, in case of unusually heavy volume of cars on the road. He imagines taking the seat across him with the boldness that only intimacy affords, a swell of love, a cursory “Where were we?” and the many words we assign to the task of continuing where we left of.