This is what he says:
"I met someone at
a restaurant in Nice, or was it Antibes? Never mind. It was spring, I
saw him sitting alone at another table and somehow we started talking.
He was from California but felt he needed to get away as often as
possible, just like us. I told him about you. No, I told him about a
girl that was coming to spend the summer with me. I told him she was
from New York and had a heart as black as midnight.
little things I loved about her, how she bites her nails when she's
nervous and only wears matching light colored underwear regardless of
the season. I told him about the Rose Bar at Gramercy and her morbid
obsession with butterflies.
He listened without asking questions,
somehow I got the feeling he knew this restless girl I was talking
about. I got the feeling he had met you, that he had spent a great deal
of his life close to you and knew precisely what I was going to say
next. That he had seen that exact same depth in your eyes, those eyes I
get so hopelessly lost in whenever I try to understand what you're
We spoke for an hour, I spoke for an hour
and he listened. He did this thing with his fingertips, like he was
drawing something on the tablecloth. Or writing perhaps. Suddenly he
excused himself and got up, told me it was very nice to meet me and
started to walk away. I wouldn't have said anything if it wasn't for his
last words, but they've been echoing like thunder in my sleep ever
since you came here. I can't stop thinking about it and I'm afraid I'll
go mad if I don't tell you. Or ask you.
He was walking away when
he stopped, hand in his pocket, running the other hand through his hair
as if deciding whether to turn around or not. He did, and he said: 'Tell
her I forgave her a long time ago'.
With all the love I feel for you now, with every beat of my broken heart I ask you: what did you do to him?"