Women

It exists in her now, the desire, the lust. He created it, the man in front of her, wineglasses and candles between them. She can let him talk, let him drink, let him forget and be careless, and have his revenges, she can keep her sadness for herself and share her happiness with the moon, bury her disappointmens, learn a language without his knowing. She can even complain and accuse and judge him. Yet he illuminated her sexuality, moulded it, made it visible for her. She thinks, it wouldn't exist without him. The dinner will end. She knows that.

She doesn't pay attention to the woman next to her. It's her birthday. The man has invited her here. She wouldn't say no, she couldn't either. It's part of the agreement. He has bought her a present. She wears it around her neck. She talks, he eats, he talks, she eats. There will always be an uncle, a niece, a neighbour's dog to share informations about. And the fact will always be there that sharing useless information feels safe in a fundamental way. Her sex belongs to another. The other accepts that she is not with him on her birthday.

A young girl passes the restaurant. She is on her way. No one reserved table for her and her much older and married lover. She doesn't even know she passes a restaurant where she and the lover could have dinner together, she only knows she passes a restaurant and she is not hungry. Thursday is theirs. She might eat again friday or later that night she'll open the door to her mother's fridge very silently and the bread and the cheese will taste so good. She smiles. I envy her that smile.