I wish I could help it, but I can’t. I like you, I like you with all my guts. That’s what you said to me when we met in the café. You came in the direction of the bar across the street, next to Lisa’s bakery. “You seem not to remember it now, right?” —I asked. “Your breath smelt like beer and cigarettes. You were so drunk I thought you would have a three-days hangover. It was actually funny.”
But then your gaze was fixed on mine —that caramel eyes nature gave you and the european face you inherited from your english father and french mother— claiming the sincerity of your announcement was keenly placed into your heart and it was merely true. It made the moment carry a tablespoon of an awkwardly coldness, which said what you were saying was the authentic. But they were drunk words, which can’t be neither false nor unfaked. I thought it was wholly banal.
“I have to admit it, I was drunk as fuck.” You laughed and looked at me, waiting for a response.
“Obviously,” I broke in. “That love declaration could just be possible with thousands of neurons burnt due to alcohol, and I have to admit, you lack of neurons, don’t get me wrong, I just say this as a joke.”
“But the thing is, I really like you, I’ve been actually liking you since so long ago I don’t remember.” The time seemed to have stopped. You declared in so honest way that the air cut in two halves: the first one remembering the scene from the last night events, and the other one remarking the frankly speech of an old and reliable friend.