When Fridays are now reserved for her, I could only mention to others in silence, that I might be faithful to her face. Yet, I fucked up the face I am supposed to trace on wood. And fat boy laughed at me for talking to my reflection. The rest left the table, and it took me four days to write about the half an hour between two strangers: questions, answers, pauses, and long silence. I just can’t record it as a conversation. The silence broken by what you saw in the sky, but I couldn’t see the patch of seven colours - a patch, not an arc or bow like the origin of your surname. I didn’t tell you I am colour blind, why the flowers are painted grey, how your air steward boyfriend could hurt you, and how I contrasted the colours to the patch of rainbow he would leave on your face.
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