Park
John Fante, Carver, Bukowski.
Sometimes Murakami.
She would come to the park and spend the afternoon reading.
Sometimes it seemed that she didn't move,
except for the hands that were turning the pages and fixing the hair behind the ears.
I liked the park. It was silent, an oasis in the middle of the chaotic city.
It was probably the same for her.
I kept on looking for the courage to approach her, but never found it.
-I'm Arturo. Bandini.
Or
-You don't know what love is.
Or maybe better
-I'm a writer.
And she would reply
-Oh...
2019-06-16
