Love happens (all the time)

...or never...

Breathing together.

"I love you," he whispered in her ear.

His voice, gentle, calm, released. In love.

Daylight. The Sun rising, shining through the window.

They were embracing each other, half naked, among the bright white sheets. Rosy her. Tanned him.

She kissed his chest, his neck, his cheek.



Claire was Irish. She had moved to New York from Dublin after finishing a Master's in Business and Administration and getting a job as a business development manager in an Irish firm that had just opened an office in Manhattan.

Fausto was born in Italy. He had lived in New York since he was twelve years old. His mother moved back to the States after she got divorced from his father. He survived working as a cook in three different restaurants in Manhattan, Bronx and Brooklyn where he lived with his mother and grandmother.

They met in a party thrown by a mutual friend. One of Claire's firm clients, one of Fausto's bosses. She liked him, his eyes, his smile, his awkwardness. He liked her, her cheeks, her hair, her shyness. They talked briefly about each other's life.

Claire accepted Lisa's invitation for dinner after work. They went to a fancy restaurant in Manhattan. The food was excellent. Butterflies. They talked about the firm, Ireland, Manhattan, men, interior design, politics, music, lingerie, chocolate... They saw each other. He was leaving the restaurant after a long shift. She waved and invited him to have a seat with them, offer that he could not refuse. He delighted them with his food, feet and history knowledge. Around midnight they left. Lisa got a cab and Fausto walked with Claire to her place which was nearby. Cool fall night. He left her at the door.

She was still at work, he thought. He went to her apartment building and left a message and a white rose for her at the porter's lodge: Can I cook for you?

She put the rose in water. Sight. She did not know how to contact him other than at the restaurant where they had met but she did not want to do that.

When she got back from work he was there, waiting for her in the street, surrounded by a bunch of paper bags from the grocery store. She smiled, her lips did, her heart did. So, can I cook for you?


"I've said I love you," whispering in her ear.

"I'm sorry," a tear in her eye, her cheek, her chin, a tear that drowned his heart.

"When?" He mumbled.

"I don't know how it happened, it just did," crying. "I'm really sorry Fausto..."


Before he left he said he would be back to pick up his stuff. He never went back...


Fausto and Marie met in a concert in Boston. Fausto and Marie fell in love one starry night on a bridge. Fausto and Marie moved together to a little apartment in Dorchester.

Marie taught French in an elementary school Downtown. Fausto found a job as a cook in a restaurant in Cambridge. They were happy. Rainbow. Settled down.


Fausto liked to walk alone at night before falling sleep in Marie's arms. He used to go to a park nearby where he would sit on a bench and smoke a cigarette. Inhale. Exhale. The park was always almost empty. Sometimes he would enjoy the love of a couple laying on the wet grass, the fate of a homeless looking for shelter, the patience of a dog taking out its owner.

He sat and smoked. He thought about his day, he thought about his mother, his grandmother, Italy, a father he barely knew. She sat and smoked. Michelle sat in a bench seventeen yards away from the one Fausto was on. How long is seventeen yards?

Fausto looked at Michelle while she was looking away. Michelle looked at Fausto while he was looking away. One day after another until...

Fausto looked for Michelle's blue eyes. Michelle looked for Fausto's brown eyes. They politely waved at each other. One day after another until...

Fausto walked to Michelle's bench and asked her for fire. He walked back to his bench and smoked. She looked at him walking away slowly. One day after another until...

Fausto walked to Michelle's bench and sat with her. They smoked together, in silence. One day after another until...

The closer he was to Michelle the further he was from his day by day life next to Marie.


"I love you," she whispered in his ear.


"What's wrong?" she added.

"I can't Marie. I love you but I can't. Something is missing. I don't know what to say. I'm really sorry," he looked down, she closed her eyes and did not want to open them again.

His stomach jumped into the void. At that precise moment he felt deeply sorry about Marie, sorry about Claire. His heart collapsed into tears. Why?


"Claire?" he asked.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

At a certain point in complexity, every software can run in every hardware...

At least, That’s what the book says!