The heat from the sun form crusts on the table covered with a week’s worth of coffee spills and sleepless nights, the clouds an enclosure casting ambiguous fragments of light upon the uneven contours of her mind. This sense of ending doesn’t mean that all can be squandered into the abyss of trepidation and pity. So the story goes, where almost nothing happens but you read it and you are convicted that such details converge both the fleeting mind and body. This line is but an incomplete and fictive narrative where nothing comes first and none is an absolute cause of the other. Here, she draws five imaginary dots on the table and I connect them with an imaginary line upon which she draws five more dots on my imaginary line. She leans close to me. I notice there’s a scar right above her left brow. I’ve not noticed it before. I wonder how she got it and why hadn’t I noticed it before. I remember telling her that I love her. Did she have that scar then? Where do we begin? I ask. When you stop asking questions, a smile plastered on her face which is now different from the one I used to love. And whether or not you like what you know, it will all come to pass.