He often found himself wordless before her, without any explanation or guile. She reduced him to this. Without any masks for comfort. It was she who had worn the masks. He knew that now.
He picks up a pen. Starts to write her a letter, then crumbles up the paper and throws it away. Unable to face his desire now, in the frenzy of his solitude. Unable to get past “Dear Marina.” Besides, he has no way of sending this letter to her. No address. Where had she gone to, why hasn’t she written or called? Where was she tonight? Nights like these he cannot remember the precise moment love veered to indifference, when doubt became paranoia. All he knows is the date of their separation. The day that she left him.
Twenty-fifth of May, a moonless Wednesday night. The heat lying between them like an interminable ocean. The silence heavy and oppressive. He had sensed the distance in her, so he knew what was coming.