black smoke
They started walking some months ago. She remembers, in an unusual way, that she told herself they would travel around the whole world if they kept up the rhythm. She's laughing at that idea, now, as her coffee awaits the inevitable end placed on the everyday table next to the everyday window in the everyday restaurant.
She feels unable to do it, and maybe that's the reason why she's turning the spoon over and over. She seems hypnotized by her own movements. Lots of people come and go in and out of the building, and just a few take a seat; if they do, they swiftly finish their frugal breakfast and leave —it's almost eight o'clock in the morning and their lives have to continue one more day, she thinks. Not hers, certainly. How long can she pretend?
Everything has changed. She can't face the consequences of that, she doesn't want to. It's been months, and even though her inner flame is gone for good —the one he had has also disappeared, she reckons—, she doesn't have the heart to admit it. Oh.
Screw it. Screw me. It's just so complicated.
Embarrassing. They had made the silliest promises. 'Oh, like, really, I'll never let you go.' 'I can do it.' 'Just dare!' All smiles. She'd have sworn it was paradise.
Her coffee's smoke is rising. Memories. Walking. Holding hands. Deciding on their next destination. Having to lie to their relatives to hide themselves.
And still, she feels like dancing. Ironically. As if she was witnessing an incredible performance in a concert where the music was blasting. She's hard to read.
She's absent. She can't come to any conclusion. She feels done but then more alive than ever. Closing her eyes, she's only left with smoke.