He had a small scar above her left breast, a crescent moon. Her blue eyes were staring at something inscrutable and, across the room. It was hot, but we have not noticed, because the air was icy stillness that exists only in movies or stories. Then he looked down. I did the same, staring at his shoes dirty in the mud of the swamp. I thought that I would have smeared all over the house, and smiled for a moment: we worry about trivial things when we have faced difficult situations. I did not know that for some time, and therefore did not know her at all. I finally decided to speak: "Yes, yes ..." I said, in answer to his question. Then the I looked, fixed, like a dead man in the eye and beyond. She opened her lips and belched.
and well, but you feel this way? We are in the midst of a situation full of suspense which no one knows anything, and you burp? It does not seem an appropriate behavior! I told her so. And she said she had just had lunch, but that was not his fault, but the author. Yet the author is me, and I never wanted the scene to be resolved in this way! At the same time, however, the author was not me, otherwise I would have been enough to get out of his mouth in a whisper or a murmur. Simply, it is decided, it's my fault. Yours? No! Yours!
