The artifice of the happy endings in stories always annoyed my Nini; she is convinced that in life there are no endings, but boundaries, wandering here and there, tripping over, getting lost.
I decided that I was nice just for the simple reason I decided to be.
Memory is fragile and the space of a single life is brief, passing so quickly that we never get a chance to see the relationship between events; we cannot gauge the consequences of our acts, and we believe in the fiction of past, present, and future, but it may also be true that everything happens simultaneously.
Our thoughts give shape to what we suppose is reality.
Without thinking Francisco lured her to himself and he searched her lips.
It was an innocent, lukewarm, delicate kiss, however it had the effect of an earthquake in their senses. Both perceived the skin of the other one as never so specify and close, the pressure of their hands, the privacy of a contact gasped from the beginning of time. A beating heat invaded them in the bones, in the veins, in the soul, something that they didn't know or that they had completely forgotten, because the memory of the flesh is fragile. [...]
Actually it was hardly a kiss, the suggestion of a waited and inevitable contact, but both were sure that it would have been the only kiss that could have remembered until the end of their days and between all the caresses the only one that would have left a sure track on their nostalgia.