He called at five thirty. Something falls afterwards, like a curtain on the piece of theater I’ve been playing in my imagination for days. The (calm) waiting begins, the fear, too, of seeing his indifference, boredom, the less desire—the last time was so beautiful. Yet the absurdity of this liaison, its “contingency,” is so obvious. What binds us to each other? For me, it’s emptiness, I know. And for him?
