It is snowing in this town. Snow reminds me of you.
A couple walks down the alley, behind the wooden cottages. They seem to ignore my presence. They are in love. Some stories end there. Ours never took that path. He will probably kill her in a year or two, or maybe later once she gives birth to their fourth child. But she keeps giving birth to daughters. He is postponing his plan every year.
It is cold here and lonely. I used to find the image of two lovers walking hand in hand under the snow, appealing. Today, this image bores me more than anything else, yet it is the only one I seem to encounter.
My book is interrupted again. The image of that couple in my mind.. and my page stays empty. I am sucking passionately on that spoon dipped in the sweetest Doshab ever made in this place. The strange molasses slides gently through my burning throat.
The man and the woman are still holding hands under the snow. They have the same boring, cliché posture that I see in the black and white movies of the Nouvelle Vague. She manages to keep her glittery smile despite the sadness. He is serious under his grey trench coat. I am trying to create passion around their stories. All attempts are remaining unsuccessful in my book.
Writing their stories is crucial, in order to conceal ours.
I am suddenly feeling very old,
As old as the snow,
wondering what happened to that couple
wondering where I buried all those disturbing thoughts
wondering when I suddenly became numb
numb to the snow and the loneliness
numb to love stories and couples walking under the snow.
Nothing is left inside worth writing about.