Sometimes I think about you. No, that’s not true, not sometimes: I think about you all the time. And every time I do a tear slips out, from only one eye. If Thomas asks me why I’m crying, I reply that it’s nothing, that I’ve focused my eye on a point on the horizon and that’s why my iris is stinging. I’m thinking about you and your unbroken solitude.
The pizza has just turned up and you’ve been searching through the money box to find coins because the boy has no change. When he (and his pimples) have disappeared, you laugh and say, in Sicilian dialect, “Che scemu carusu”—“What a stupid boy.”
You sit down on the sofa with your legs crossed and switch on your TV, trying to find a film that might move you. A costume drama, preferably, with a tight, romantic plot. Francesco and Morino are sniffing at the tomato on your pizza; you hold out a little bit of sauce on one finger. You’ve already opened the windows, the terrace with the little garden is a few feet away, and you catch the freshness of the newly watered lawn. It’s lovely to see Ornella lying on her belly on the carpet, head on a cushion, face pointing straight at the TV. But her eyelids are closed — she’s just gone to sleep.
I love hearing her tell you to fuck off when you call her to go to bed, to get between the sheets. She rises to her feet, looks at you with her direct, imperious eyes, and says, “You’re a fucking idiot, why the hell did you wake me up?”
You don’t reply, because if you did the two of you would come to blows.
If I’d been with you, I would have sat still with my cheek pressed against your bottom and would soon have gone to sleep. But now you’re alone and the cats have followed Ornella between the sheets.
You’ve lit a cigarette and sat yourself down in front of the television again. Your eyes, which are made of water, are drowning in an ocean of tears.
When you wake up, you realize that it wasn’t my voice calling you but the infuriating crackle of the umpteenth unextinguished cigarette making the umpteenth hole in the same old sofa.
You go to bed knowing that I wasn’t calling you and you weren’t able to get pissed off and say, “What the hell do you care if I sleep here on the sofa?”
You slink off to bed, tears drying on your cheeks.
I’m in another world, falling in love.
I think about me, about you, about him, about me and him, especially. Your eyes are made of water, mine of fire, his of earth. Out of the three, I’m the one who can endure your dominion, the one who loves it.