"Once upon a time ...."
Seeking the corrector of proofs. After three rings the answering attacks. Are 23. Try again, I hope in a desperate intern. A sleepy voice answered.
"Three Hockey, Hockey scored three." I say, maybe cry. "There are three dots too, suspension accidents. That's a milestone. " She marks. "You can not go hand in to the editor as well. That point is still, three arms, three arms. "
I resume reading. "Once upon a time there was .///" yes because now it's gone.
"Once Upon a Time." because it is not a fairy tale. I resume reading. Hockey draft on slide three tears. Perhaps only those can clear an error so grave and let me find the desire to dismiss the past and not the corrector of proofs. No one ever does their job well. Neither history, nor fate.
be clear is not even a fairy tale. "Once upon a time point".
's the story of a man, aged 39 and a girl of 27: a bit' immature, a bit 'dreamy, perhaps, those who still believe in angels. Angel had taken, for three years now, the name of Lorenzo or Aldo. Martina played there until he showed up, he was Lorenzo and she always thought a bit 'Roman. An angel Roman on a cold February that looked slow to do with Spring.
Martina was long dead and now he simply hoped to survive in that meeting. For her worth much more than him. Two eyes distracted, as endless hours of history of all kinds, now saw it. A moment and noticed her. It could only be the light of another occasion, a myth, a fairy tale, a woman had asked to wait. Martina expected, mostly s'indaffarava for two years and pass her back to his revenge against itself. But those eyes were a chance. Her half-blind in one eye he saw the intensity. In two eyes distracted after years saw saw his second chance. Do not give her hand, gave her hand only.
In early March, the Ides, birth and death of all this had the smell of blooming flowers. White daisies: small, fragile. Courtroom on the ground floor, B02, sleepy eyes could see the rebirth of Martina dressed in new splendor that Winter had cleared the meadow. Before now, lesson in "History of Eastern Europe." The door was always a bit 'open behind Lorenzo. The smell of the dew that covered the white coat intoxicated and brought us back to the classroom lesson. My dream continued. I remember that smell. How is glued to the places it remains even in dreams. That death, rebirth now know all that burnt coffee. Amaro, to throw. The wafer not, there will arise over new daisies.
There once was a hug. It was ours. I remember the exact tile traffic in that square in the heart of Barcelona. I could not go back, because there's more. Nor embrace, nor the little 'us. I would have stayed there all night, just to put pockets each frame to be photographed because the ghosts, the headlights fading and leaves you in the dark do not. How do instead with the screams, the tears, remembering that night.
It was late. Your words, Sue, have touched my ears "Martina keep all of these precious days. I love you, do you all want. " Slow movements, a glimpse, a small blow to the head, the kind that you're feeling a little bit and creating waiting.
"Martina I commend you well." Today I would like it so much. But the hugs I've seen them break, crumble before my eyes into his. There is nothing that belongs to us. Nothing quellaa our friendship, a little 'unconventional, a bit' stream in the rock, a bit 'too deep for most but not for us.
But you have decided. Better to follow the trail.
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