In Brooklyn, I again try and write the story of C and I.
“This is a happier story than my last,” I say, by way of beginning.
I want to write everything. It’s a love story, I want to say. It’s the story I think of every morning when I wake up, and the story I dream of every night when I go to bed. It is the only thing that matters to me.
But I can’t write these things. I know I can’t.
C could never hear them.
And I can’t write about C without being honest.
So I never write that story.
And it all remains unsaid.
Just as she wants.
She must know, I think.
But as she dances around Lisbon, invites me to come live with her in an offhand way, and then refuses to talk seriously about an us, about a future… I cannot shake the feeling that, no — she doesn’t know.
She doesn’t want to know.
Which would be fine.