“… Where will my mind wander in this valley of dangerous feelings? …”: the letter is haunting me once again. Damned and astonishingly good memory. Fear and shame – the chance to put an end to them never dares to stand by my side, yet these two are always ready to toy with my peace of mind.
The days pass and feelings become obsolete. I’m not keeping my eyes on her this time: since today, the day and I will have to make do with the absence of her presence. Yet, on the other hand, I insist on recalling the endearing way her voice would tremble, aimlessly; and how her hands would shake, restlessly. Now there is only anxiety and agony, plain to see; the way her legs wouldn’t stay still showed this clearly, and her voice had become slightly lacking in her usual, once-cheerful charisma. At that table, she didn’t say much to me, even though I was always just inches away from her, and I didn’t even dare to disturb her when she was focused (ironic from today’s perspective).
Although she wasn’t an open book when she spoke, she already said a great deal simply through her presence: the outfit she’d bought from some shop in the bustling city centre—I know where it came from; I remember seeing one item still on display in the window of what was probably that very boutique; it’s only logical; she doesn’t in any way seem to live in the outskirts (I explain this so as to leave nothing to the imagination); particularly as she adheres to a style of dress that lacks any sense of elegance. Furthermore, it was really difficult to persuade her to talk about herself—I mean from a deeply personal perspective—even with the few, carefully chosen direct or indirect questions I was able to ask her. Of course; for her part, I detected no fear, just ‘evasiveness’, and a reluctance to reveal anything too personal.
I hate the theatre; it’s always exhausting to be on stage. Ah, the day is over; tomorrow, I’ll have to go up there again.