The first time he called, his fingers trembled so that they could barely press the buttons on the phone. Then she heard his voice. "Hello," he said. And suddenly he was speechless. He discovered that he had nothing to say it. Was flooded by a deep sense of powerlessness. Not because the words will not come out, but because once took her conscience, fuzzy, uncertain, their existence, he found himself helpless, empty, vulgar, without the armor of dreams that always surrounded him when he watched, furtively, in the third car of the first subway line 5. Then touched with his elbow on bare arm simulating, thereupon, the modesty inherent in any physical contact unpredictability. He was that which was locked behind a book that covers old and almost looks orphan trying to deposit into her green eyes, and in code form, the complete genome of its existence. He was aware of failing in his attempt, so the spot a week after another, to share that kind of intimacy again surrounded by the silence and resignation. So when he saw once his number listed on the cover of his wallet, he wondered whether it was inadvertent slip or reward for their tenacity, and not because of its insistence on an innocent regular proximity, as he believed showing respect to her every time reduced to silence one of its anxious glances. So when the girl hung up the phone to not hear him say anything, could not help thinking that she needed him more than his shy and quiet company in the metro. Maybe not even that. And that number had reached his hand through a trap capricious chance. However
next day as if it were self-imposed imperative, call again. Fell silent again to take her phone. And again he fell impotence
to see again hang. This continued so for several days, during which he watched her every morning resting on glass, immutable, wondering what led him him to do what he did. One day she hung up. And it downloaded on a string of expletives as he expected, almost eagerly, he did, but simply began to speak, as his sister or a friend who called and asked for work, their relationships, their tastes and needs. And knew him as the laundry was on the corner of his house from hers, was governed by a guy who spit on sidewalks, and knew it was something she hated, and knew also that once was a guy who did it, and that was the reason she decided to just let the week know. Could not help smiling when she said one day, some time, a guy you spoke to her on the subway, said she was very attractive, and she said thanks, but I had not had a boyfriend and indeed of made by that stage was still beating his breakup with Gabriel, a former colleague whom he met in line at the copier. And every conversation, in which he articulated no sound, ending with a "good, I have to stop and talk. " He was aware of the comedy that became involved, sure it was the kind of intimacy that she wanted, the maximum he could aspire. So to see her every morning, not feeling recognized himself, pretending to a kind of amnesia, perhaps to excuse, to desire again, to feel person in front of her, and while, not to look with compassion as look at a helpless beast. As she was, above all, a defenseless woman. And it was something that corroborated with the passage of weeks, once accumulated as much data in your life that could well be your own. And just like that without knowing why, let's call it a night.
few days later she spoke to him in the car 3 from line 5. I think we agree in the morning, he said. He stared into her eyes for the first time. The more strongly wished he had never loved anyone. And then felt sorry. For everything. Above all by itself, then saw that she needed at that moment, he could no longer respond. Their relationship, he thought, had been exhausted.
- No, I think that was the wrong person, he said. And kept reading.
