When his mind is idle, he thinks of her.
—What are you thinking about?
—Maths.
If he’s with her, he loses track of time.
—So late to get home, why?
—Maths.
She wants long periods for herself.
—Why are you going away for the weekend?
—Maths.
—Why are you going to Brazil, again?
—Maths.
She doesn’t like the same things I do.
—You didn’t leave the hotel room, why?
—Maths.
She requires him in the middle of the night.
—You left our bed at midnight, why?
—Maths.
She texts him at the movies.
And he writes back.
—Maths.
Math’s a richer lover than I am.
—Who’s going to pay for that Brazil ticket, then?
—Maths.
—And Korea?
—Maths.
—And Denmark?
—Maths.
—And Boston?
—Maths.
—Could I go?
—Can you pay it?
—No.
—Then you can’t.
She’s a powerful lover, Maths.
She gave him a job.
She gave him fame.
She gives him money.
She gets him friends.
I’m just a girl.
And she… she’s Maths.
I don’t know if you’re worried, my dear readers, but my holidays this year do not include holidays from writing. Actually, I’m writing so much I’ve just finished a notebook I started last month. There’s a post for patrons only and tell you too in a bit about what I’m working on. I hope you like it…
I’m a bit of a Hobbit. I like to see things grow, little by little. I like routines (and escaping them: but I find them comfy). I like it when I run out of something and I buy exactly the same one again, I get the impression that I was right the first one. My
Un beso como el primer pie en la arena Un beso como el asiento de atrás, tras la playa Un beso como la cinta de casette que se ha derretido Un beso como un semáforo bajo el sol hace treinta años Un beso como robar una patata frita de la cocina Un beso como tus
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