She sits on the frail armchair as if studying the horizon. For a few seconds she wonders why the colors don’t mix and a line so perfectly straight can lead to nowhere.
She remembers the words she never spoke as he sat on that caved in couch. She recites them in her mind. Again. She knows them by heart, one by one, knowing how they will sound, how loud they will be heard and the exact intensity she will put into each one. She knows this so well as she knows that one day she will say them looking straight into his distant eyes. Maybe next year.
“You never noticed, did you? The way I stared into nothing, loose molecules drunk in a space too crammed for them. You thought I was paying attention, following the story line, trying to catch the joke, maybe.
You never noticed, did you? As your brain waves soaked up the screen. My eyes, like Monalisa’s, there, but only on a timeless painting, beyond your reach, light years away from that couch.
You never noticed, did you? As you laughed at the sitcoms and drank your warm beer, scratching unwanted dandruff into fingernails too occupied to touch me, that today, I turned 40.”