The other day Richard brought me an apple. How did he know that I like apples? Apples are hard to grow here. But the idea of eating it while walking is nice. And then I started to think about how I usually prefer the idea of doing something rather than that thing itself, like drinking, smoking, or even being in a relationship.
Fiji has always been nice, kind, loving, gentle and all, always trying to make up for what he thinks I have to sarcrifice and what he think he has done wrong. Like today, he came over to bring me chocolate mousse (which I do enjoy more than the act of consuming lots of fat) and head band for the cold. I mean, I’ve always thought head bands are for girls playing tennis…
But then words slipped out again and there came another fight, another argument. Maybe he wasn’t wrong, maybe I wasn’t right, but for whatever reason, it happened, and I could forsee it happen, like in any other nights.
My mind usually played the scene where Richard was asking me those questions I’ve been asking myself as well. But again, what I see now is that Richard dying slowly everyday of the thought of never making a father. After all, he’s the one who’s been in relationships throughout adulthood.