A literary love
These were two writers in love. They were in love with each other and with words. With their own ones and with those of the other.
They would talk about love, write about love, try to describe love… but never really live it.
When feeling the romantic rush of kissing, the one with the urge to do so would get close to the other one and he or she would pour beautiful descriptions of epic kisses that didn’t actually take place. Breathless words would fly from one mouth to the other and eyes would close and sighs would be exhaled and climax would arrive but physical love would never occur.
One day, she found an old photograph between the pages of a college novel. In that photograph she saw a younger her and a younger him hugging each other. And their mouths were close. Really close. And she could see that not a word was being uttered. No words travelled from one mouth to the other.
She remembered those days when words weren’t sufficient to express their love, when they needed to actually do something to say “I love you”.
When did words start to take over skin’s, saliva’s, looks’ and smiles’ places? Whose fault was it?
She just remembered:
She was going to that important meeting, with her first short novel in her bag kicking like an unborn child eager to get out to the world.
He kissed her good luck and she kissed him a “thank you”. He made her promise to text him when she got out of the meeting, as he was going to be working and might not be able to pick up the phone.
When the train arrived, she turned to him and, before going on it, smiled at him for the last time and told him: