Stunned.
not know if it's the fault of the wine, cigar, or that his gaze.
The room is almost dark, she stood still and stern, he sinks slowly in the leather chair and in that the low-light un'abat lamp warms up, just the situation.
She tightens the sting, he holds in his left hand, the slender stem of the glass and crystal in a smoky right Cohiba.
Vizi.
not familiar with that look. It is not the same as those moments spent in the sun in the wheat fields of Salento in the middle of a meadow or the Tuscan hills. Hers is a look of November, gray and foggy from the Milan hinterland.
The seasons take turns. It's called running time.
It 's a deafening silence, that which resonates now, taking the place of that noisy barking, noisy that violent exchange of "views", sad to see who screams louder.
She is still immobile, totally severe. Her face betrays, however, two tears streaming down her face the horribly symmetrical.
He gets up, moves slowly toward the turntable, and lowers his head on the vinyl.
Franz Ferdinand - Walk Away.
He approaches her. Two eyes of ice meet, they say everything or maybe you do not say anything. The lips are touching in a subtle kiss.
A kiss taste even more bitter than that of Judah.
She turns around, her heels rumble to the door of entry.
him unmoved, accompanied by the words from the vinyl, whispering.
"I love the sound of you walking away."
