His voice hung from the telephone like a thin thread of light at the end of a tunnel.
He whispered in a warm voice, as if he were placing a cloak of reassurance over the words:
“Don’t worry… I won’t be late.”
Then he gently closed the line, like closing a window on a dream that doesn’t want to wake up.
In his office, the clock ticked silently, heavy with emotion, but he paid it no heed. He put on his coat and went out into the city, which, that night, seemed to him more expansive than usual… as if the streets were stretching out to test his patience. He passed shops teeming with lights, pausing before a window displaying gifts like tiny stars, their joy deferred. He chose a box that shimmered with the color of memory and tied a red ribbon around it, like the mark of an old kiss.
In the flower shop, he chose a white bouquet, as if he were choosing a piece of cloud. He put his nose into it, and its fragrance overwhelmed him like an invisible hand pulling him to another time… to a laugh that runs in the gardens of memory; you hear it and feel it like an old breeze that knows its way to your heart, a voice wet with longing, and a love whose story has not yet ended.
On the way back, obstacles multiplied, like questions swirling in the mind of a lover racing against time toward a moment he fears will slip away, toward a heart that awaits him with a longing equal to his yearning, toward a meeting he wants to happen now… before time intervenes again. The traffic light lingers longer than necessary, the rain begins to tap the car window like restless fingers, and the wind plays with the edges of my coat as if trying to rouse me from a self-imposed slumber. “Will she like my gift this year?” “What dish should I prepare for her this time?”
And what? How? And when?
Ugh, this road just won’t end!
He turned the key in the lock and entered with a lightness tinged with eagerness. A heavy silence hung in the air, but he heard soft footsteps. He smiled, lit the candles one by one, and the shadows shrank and then stretched out, dancing on the wall. He set the table with meticulous care, as if arranging a meeting with a beautiful destiny, a meeting with a dream in its materialization, with a presence the heart could not mistake. A ritual repeated every year, like a secret prayer known only to him. He placed the bouquet in the center, and the white heads bowed as if offering an evening greeting.
He quickly turned on the computer to their stories engraved in his memory. The music began to flow slowly, escaping like a melted longing. He raised his head towards the stairs. There she was… formed from light, gliding in her most beautiful attire, her eyes preceding her steps, and her smile opening the old doors that he kept knocking on.
He reached out to her, and his palm met a warm, vibrant one. He turned with her, step by step, as if the world were slipping away from beneath them, leaving them alone in this orbit. The earth seemed to vanish beneath his feet, leaving only the rhythm of two hearts responding to each other. He whispered to her what he had held back a lifetime: that his love would never grow old, that the promise remained as fresh as ever, and that he would never abandon her, no matter how far apart they might be, for some closeness transcends distance.
He sat down at the table, raised his glass in front of her chair, then sipped slowly, as if he were tasting life drop by drop, staring into the emptiness that was filled with her more than ever before.
