Roman
I take Nina to a posh restaurant downtown, and we spend almost two hours there. She describes what she has planned for the exhibition, and I let her talk while watching her—her smiling eyes, the way she waves her hands in front of her face when she’s excited, or how she leans forward, whispering in a low voice when she gossips about her colleagues who share the gallery. She must be aware that no one could hear her, the place is only half full, and none of the tables close to us are taken. Still, she keeps her tiny hand over her mouth, chatting about walking in on one of the other artists as she was groping the guy from finance behind the gallery floor.
There have been a lot of women in my life, but with Nina in front of me, they all just fade away. We never even kissed properly, o
