We locked eyes across a living room crowded with college students high on X.
The war was as inevitable as the turning of the earth. To organize was hopeless, but we consoled ourselves with the parable of the thousand steps, and with the beers of our hosts.
That night I slept in her attic, where from inside a sleeping bag I listened to the snores of my colleagues and thought of her.
Beautiful, brilliant. Those words should reverberate, yet today I remember almost nothing of her beyond that. Only that and her lovely name which truly did do her justice: Marina.
That week I spared the feelings of yet another unfaithful lover, who for her part did not spare mine.
What was I to them?
Lying on the attic floor with open eyes, staring in darkness at the rafters, from inside a sleeping bag, while my colleagues snore.