An ordinary day
"There was not much light in the room. From the window opening onto the courtyard you could see the trees, no leaves and no color, only dark shadows against the sky.
"The woman looked at the milk smoking in the cups and said, 'Drink, dear. Don't keep thinking and drinking.' The man said, 'Yes, now I drink,' and remained as he was, his head closed in his hands, his elbows resting on the table.
"'Please drink before it gets cold,' the woman said.
"'I'm tired,' said the man. The woman smiled at him, but her mouth had a sad twist.
"'Do you remember the Death of a traveling salesman?' and since she didn't answer: 'It's my story.' he said.
"'Here, start again!' the woman said with a frown. 'Your life is not just fatigue, disappointment. Your life is also creating, writing.'
"'To write. It depends how you spell it.'
"'You write well, Ernesto.'
"'When I write I forget everything and I am almost happy, this is true.' he said, bending to inhale the sweetish steam of the milk. 'Talking to yourself can also give you relief, yet you always end up needing someone to listen.'
"'I have read everything you have written.'
"'Yes, and I love you for this too.' Ernesto smiled at her...
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