On the seventh day she cried for six minutes, thinking about
his five fingers over her face, four orgasms, and three
weeks before he had to go, he said for the second time that
she was the one. And then, she felt nothing at all.

In the old library, under the clicks of the grandfather
clock, time was perpendicular to her pages, of her book,
that she had wrote, published in languages she hated. She
turned the pages in the wrong direction, like a European.
Reading from back to front, she circled her origin like a
vulture. "This is what I ran from," she said, reaching the
beginning of the last chapter:

"Everything changed when spring came, and her letter was
answered."

And I never wanted anything to change. They were closing the
library, so she left the book, her book, and bought a ticket
to Paris, or Berlin.