"Near the beginning," Concha said, "that thread I had in my hair that you picked out so carefully - well, every time I did any sewing, I put one there on purpose, to see you take it out. It was so funny!"
I was not too surprised to discover how different her memory was from my own (she was still touched by attentions I had long forgotten). One day, I had thrown a bouquet of artificial carnations out of the window. Another, I had tried to force my way into her bathroom, we had concocted a rape scene, and the excitement of the pretence was so great that my pleasure was upon me before I could possess her.
"Total," Concha suddenly concluded, "the way we never are for each other."
I did not answer. Her face, beside mine, remained motionless. With one accord we changed the subject.
Then there were endless walks. Concha never wanted to do anything else, enjoyed this happy, mechanical movement, and if I suggested stopping in a cafe she only agreed reluctantly. Did she do this on purpose, to preserve the marginal character of our relationship? She was subtle enough for that. When we went out, she did up her hair in a bun the way she knew I liked it, and despite the diamond-shaped comb and the long pin, it always came undone too quickly. Then she looked at me as if to say: "I can't stay the way you like me for long." Yes, she was subtle enough for that. And when I walked with her in the neighbourhoods where I had been so sad, so desperate, I told myself, as if to take my revenge on them now: "Remember the name of this street so you can come this way again, after you've lost her." The next day I tested my memory, but it remained mute as to the name, and though Concha was still with me, it was as if I had lost her again forever.
[A Strange Solitude, Sollers, P.]
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