Small love story

I said:
- I dreamt about you last night
He replied:
- The Smiths

Only then I felt in love.

girl is sad and depressed and lonely.

girl calls boy.
boy calls girl.
girl wants boy.
boy wants girl but it´s complicated.
girl doesn´t care.
girl and boy go for dinner and have sex.
boy fells in love with girl.
girl doesn´t.
boy texts all the time.
girl remembers that is not sad or depressed and lonely afterall and that she very well with her life

girl goes to work.
girl meets other boy.
boy and girl talk.
girl likes boy.
boy looks like he likes girl.
boy says that girl should go with him to India.
girl wants to go to India.
girl gets home and "Eat love and pray" is on tv.
girl adds boy on facebook.
boy is married.

girl is sad and depressed and lonely.

I know it's Sunday night, but do you think I could renegociate my doubt?

Memory options

If only this could be an option! Telling our brain what to do with different info. Keep it or send it the recycle bin or just abandone it in a back room folder.
Exactly one year ago. I inherited my grandfathers' memory and the ability to link events together to know that it was raining and I was tired and I almost missed dinner to stay cosy at home and something made me move and I met a friend while waiting for him downstairs and it was her birthday and I didn't know. Now I know it's her birthday and so I know it was exactly one year ago and I will always know it 2 years from now ,3 , maybe 10, even if the memory of him dilutes in so many other memories, in this day, I won't ever have the option of forgetting.
On the other hand, what would you do with the options?

Shall we dance?

I asked him as soon as we entered the house. Bare feet, wet shoes left at the door, summer rain doesn't cool down the hearts, just one more cigarette in the balcony and he says I don't dance as he grabs my waits and slowly takes it around the room. My feet over his feet as one should always dance when you're in love and I won't ever remember which song was playing.
My feet over his feet as it should always be, even when no music is playing, slowly around the room.

I started drawing as soon as my heart was broken. There's one thing that happens when you feel that your life is stolen from you - an emptyness, like a vacuum, a void, a heavy space inside yourself. With me was in my hands.  I'd look at it and, as I still do, remember my grandfather voice, while my grandmother lied behind a hospital door, after a minor brain stroke at the age of 85, and he grabbed my hand, his hand shaking with fear, and said - you have such a beautiful hands, so beautiful nails, just like your grandmother. And they were empty, loose. The nails were still polished, like my grandmothers - they were never like hers, I have scars from cat bites, and small cuts from kitchen accidents, burn marks and, to be honest, I inherited my father thick working fingers that I disguise under red red nail polish, but they were open, no musle force, laying on my lap. Empty hands as a witness of an empty heart, empty brain. Not nervous, not restless. Just a gigantic black hole with 10 fingers with no hope to create anything - dead extremeties hanging loose. That's when I started drawing, when I became unable to spread the butter on the bread, when the musle loss gave me corps fingers, when I knew they were already useless, I invented them a new function. I never draw before, never knew how to, was never good at it, and then, the fingers, my fingers, as born to a new.life after death, decided to go restless and today, everyday, this is what they do.

Reading a new Murakami will always bring you back here. We'll meet again, I dream. You'll check in at the hostel or just by accident we'll meet each other in a Dublin pub on an afternoon and Misread from Kings of Convinience will be the song playing on the radio.
Or not.
It doesn't really matter. Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong already sang about it ages ago - no-one can take that away from me