He was my husband, my love, too many years ago now to remember exactly what August day it was. You'll fade, too, like that into a darkness where the heart goes dead and must be brought back to life again somehow, when that seems not possible. We came home last night. This morning again, too early, you got up, went to work. You'll come home at four o'clock, tired.
Nothing happens out of the ordinary.
Except your hands. You look at me. I touch you. The moon gets smaller. Every day the road to Eftalou gets hotter and more bleached, the thistles in the fields grow sharper, and the time goes on being broken.