En små eftermiddag kärlek notera.

The sun’s hitting the red carpet, reflecting on the lime green walls and everything’s looking sort of pink. I’m laying on the carpet, staring at the ceiling and touching my ribs; did I lose weight? Probably not. I’m thinking of him, of course. People say life’s easy, light and oh-so-simple and that we are the ones who make it complicated and sporadically fucked. My dear, if life was simple, then I’d be sitting on a church’s staircase with him, the weather would be so cloudy and so thick and the air would be oh-so-polluted, and we’d be in silence, me with a little tray of sushi on my lap, counting the red cars, him with a bottle of that beer you wouldn’t find here in the city, but at his hometown you would and that’s why I love him, his hands holding the ice-cold beer, the tiny drops of water falling from the bottle’s surface on his dry, worn-out fingers, the way his Adam’s apple moves up and down while he sips it, just like every other man on Earth, but he’s thinking about politics and the economy and staring at yellow birds across the street, and that’s why I love him.