She began to cross the street but suddenly stopped because a car.

The car stopped too, somebody inside was moving the hand slowly, opening the glass. She looked inside and saw him, it was the hand with a soft touch.

What are you doing so lonely walking away from the park? Come on.

He opened the door of the car. She entered, asking at low voice, why did you go away? No words, no reasons. Are you teasing me?

My dear, you did not understand. I said that I would get the car in the parking close to the park. The payment of parking took a lot of time, many people. And also because of the hard traffic I was obliged to make a big tour of the city for coming here. 

But the hand in the fog

With the hand I was saying to you: wait, I will come back.

Now we must go to a ride around but close to the city, it is over the fog. We will see other mountains, other hills. We will change the landscape.

She was mute. Just trying to separate the tiny line between the reality of the words and the metaphor. It is not easy in some situations.

We will go together of course – if you wish. You consider me a complex man but, my dear, I am not. I am a simple man like a boy that comes from a farm.

His voice was so soft, delicious to hear. Sometimes when he was not looking at her and speaking – she closed her eyes just to feel the modulation of his voice. It seemed like an actor’s voice – with the correct decibels.

But at this time she didn’t close her eyes. She looked at him in such a way that it was almost a brain surgery. She wanted so much understand or believe. This was a crossroad: if she believed in him – she disbelieved in herself. If she believed in herself – she disbelieved in him. So complicated – she thought. After all she decided believe in the misunderstanding caused because of the fog.

And she learned that there is not only a truth between two persons. Each one carried the weight of the personal own truth and when is a couple – a new truth is born without permission from one to another. Just born.

Sometimes he looked so tired or so sad. She always waited for his first word or smile. This was a way that she found for not be invasive or precipitated. She acted like in the park: no questions and no answers and a happy smile when he came back.

She understood about solitude – like a poem or a verse rhymed.

He touched her leg so soft. She felt a calm and she breathed slowly. Few minutes later he looked at her and touched her face in a not usual way. Not so close and not so far. Like they were in virtual world or some like this. Like they were writing a book together although separated and very distant in a land far away. But both so close. Maybe this could be nominated – intimacy.

Feeling his hand touching her face so kindly she didn’t know why – but suddenly she remembered the first poem she wrote.

Never – in all her life she had written only a word by hobby – until that early hour in that morning. She awaked with so much angst because the way her personal life was going. Many losses. At that night – before she wrote her first poem – she stood up beside the bed and decided to go to the balcony. It was late in the night and at that hour so much dark and a wind cold. She couldn’t breath easily. She came back into the bedroom and saw a piece of paper on the little table near the bed. She got the paper – found a pen and wrote her first poem since she was born.

Many years later she knew that – that poem had saved her life.

“I cry for your absent hands/ I cry for your present back/ I cry for the clothes on the hanger/ useless and meager/ I feel the warmth of the tear/ that run down calm/ disguised/ slow. I cry to know I am.”

The word – hands – made her move a little bit surprised. Like a little jump ordered by the body more than by the mind – or perhaps – the opposite. But she said nothing.

As he had read her thinking – he held her hand and said smiling – now you are safe.

Maybe after so many years she could be calm – even for minutes or hours or days – it didn’t matter the time. Time is selfish and has it’s own measures. The important is not the measures – but the intensity of the feelings. Now she knew this. Moving – she sit closer him and held his arm.

She learned some years ago that it is the hand that demonstrated the solitude – the loneliness. She thought it were the eyes – but she was wrong. It was a hard finding but now time went on. She changed her life with – her own hands. She almost smiled – but controlled herself.

He was in silence. Just his hand changed from her face to her leg. She said nothing – when he was in silence she respected. It was his style maybe to feel better some situation. She knew that he was never absent from all around him – especially her. And waited in silence also – as habitual.

He looked at a square and said surprised – yes.

Stopped and parked the car.

Come on. I will show you some that you will like too much – I’m sure.

She did the same as before: no questions and no answers but at this time – immediately – a happy face.

She was becoming to have confidence on him. And he held her hand and they went – together – to this mysterious place.

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