10. Since I don't have the time nor mind to figure out.

The next day we met at that resturant where we had danced, drinked and philosofied.
Where we had lived.
They would always play my cd at the last open hour of the day.
Of course they did not know that it was mine.
I went there every day, at the same time.
I wanted to hear our songs, my songs again.
I did not want to let them go.

I sat there with my third double espresso, hyperventilating for some reason.
He stepped into the room.
His shadow was mighty, but his apperance weak.
I felt his steps on the wooden floor. Every single hit made my heart beat faster. Anxoius.
My masterplan was set to order.
He once told me that he aswell collected postcards.

I remembred that.
I loved him for that.
I loved him for being a better version of me.
He loved me just for being me.

I had brought some postcards with me to illustrate my obvious point.
He nodded and nothing had to be said.
Of course we should stay in touch that way.
I was allergic to e-mails.
He was willing to try.

My postcards had a meaning in life.
They were happy.
Conor kept singing thru out the speakers and the grey people that filled the resturant started to shake their heads to this singers wonderful scream.
I was still happy.
Still a little bit ridiculosy happy.

Then he went away.
We said goodbye that day.
It started to rain.
We went under the bridge and kissed in the green-tasting water surrounded by the sympathetic ducks.
We kissed for seconds.
Minutes.
Hours.
Days.
I can't recall.

I can't remember.

My watch stopped to work after that.
The ducks started to pull our hair after a while, as a reflex we bumped both our heads at the bottom of the bridge. Auch. Love hurts.
We were such a cliché.