Listener

Pretty. Really pretty.

So young, seems to be my age. But such nice clothes, everything carefully choosen, the glasses, the hair carefully made. Is she married? Think she is. No, no. No ring. Not married. But surelly she graduated as early as possible and is already on a good job making good money, may be she lives alone...

Those were my first thoughts and impressions on the girl that would soon become my girlfriend.

And I had my way through her house, through her family, through her body and through her future. Or so she thought.

How could the two of us be so mixed together and still be living in worlds apart? Is it that her humor was so condemnably different from mine? Is it that love just ceased to exist because of its own will?

On the phone I used to tell stories. Stories that made my day happier, because I had to look for stories in order to have stories to tell and so I became more connected to the world and the world was a place full of stories. And she always loved to listen. And listened. And sometimes made her comments, always serious, thoughtful and pertinent opinious, shortly and objectively stated. And I realized I was happier for the much I found outside in the world after I met her, not for the things I found in her.

Now I tell stories to myself and to those who appreciate it because it's a reflexion of the things they like in the world more than a reflexion of the attention they so desperate want. And she still doesn't understand that the world she loved in me is but a single piece of the world outside which she so eagerly refuses to enjoy. I know I'm not being fair with this opinion on her, but fairness has its own realm, which cannot cover the entirety of life unless you give up being yourself.