An imperfection made of us

They sit next to each other out in the balcony. Through the checkered windows, their lives caught in a frame.

She laughs and flicks her cigarette, he is so pleased to be here. She has forgotten she was complaining only this morning that she thinks they have so little in common.

Silly concerns they forget the closer they are. Discussing an old ballgame from the 80s. He narrates it for her like he saw it yesterday. They’ve discovered they’ll both like to have the same thing for dinner. She will cook it for him tonight, she is excited.

She’s raging about the unfairness of being a woman in this world. He listens to her patiently, always. He sighs softly, takes this confrontation gently like he does, always.

He stretches out his arm to hold her hand. They disappear, the frame is empty. The silence lasts a few moments, then there’s hushed murmuring. Talking heads bobbing above the surface. They are laughing again.

The dance goes on for some hours. Then they come inside, it’s gotten colder. There is dinner to eat and the wine is getting over. Maybe there’s a bottle left from last week.

There in the dim light of the living room, he holds her. They escape out of the view, into darkness. Tomorrow will be the same, and then the weekend will be over. A long hug behind the door, as he leaves.

On Monday she’ll remember, there was cake in the fridge. She’ll ask why he never reminded her before he left. He’ll say something to make her smile. And they’ll laugh about it again, next weekend.