They say women are tricky... Bashny.Net

They say women are tricky. I do not know. When I was gone, I did not take anything. Only your things. Your gifts I left. Nothing should remind you about our months living together. What is my trick? Where I cheated or lied to you? All this time I was honest with you. Maybe even more honest than with you are.


Only my stuff. And a couple of photos in the phone. And your voice in the recording. And pockets full of memories. And even crumpled, never uttered my "Love" that I kept in the linen in your gray closet in the bedroom. Everyone was waiting for the right time, got out, looked like a prepared surprise for his birthday. Not useful, take. I have carried everything away. Yes, women are tricky. Do you remember that moment in the car, on the first night? It's time to say goodbye. I was waiting for you to kiss me. You said funny stupidity. I smiled. Looked you in the eye and thought about what I agree to affect them forever. Forever is impossible, I understand. But it doesn't matter. It is important that I was. I took that kiss too. It was winter. You often have a cold. I closed the curtains in your bedroom, a brewed tea with raspberries. Lay down next to the bed and fed you with a spoon. I imagine that it's a magic Cup that will heal you very quickly. Before you water, I whispered "SIM salabim". No, I'm not a witch, but I so wish you were not ill. Don't worry, the Cup I left. And raspberries. And even spell. Just the memory of it I took. I remember how your hair smells. Your shoulder, where I slept so many nights. The smell of the bathroom filled with men's fragrances and hormones. I remember the taste kiss in the morning and at night. Tricky — taken, too. How do they differ? More tenderness in the morning, at night — from the animal. But it happened and Vice versa. They are definitely different. I can't remember. Really forget? Memory is also a tricky female. I do not remember, in thy sight more olives or cinnamon. Forgot if I cried, raking the remnants of memories, trying to fold into a suitcase to the brim full to behind your back to carry. Don't remember the last sunset. Blood red or is it purple? When we decided to leave, remember that somewhere chest ached. Left or right? Above or below? The heart or the liver? I do not remember. And the last kiss? At the front door? You wanted to carry a bag for me? Yes, we kissed. But I don't recall anything else felt. I took everything. And she also forget the throwing out of the window, as the Italians unnecessary things. Just out of a sense of self-preservation. Consider finally and closed his eyes, thrown into oblivion. Anything can be toxic. Threat. Fatal. Any of gone memories. Especially this little crumpled piece of "Love", which stayed with me neoteny. He may one day kill me. Author: Elena Andreichikova

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