A new smell brings Adrian to lower his head, and recede out of his stupefaction to the sight of the door, where through its ajar position, Catherine has poked in her head.
A smile warms her face to the cheekbones, and forces the tension inside of Adrian to walk itself out of another door, that is the door of his heart; and out of the heart, it goes, to commit suicide out of the window. What would tension look like as a pile of innards upon the walkway? Perhaps it would look like nothing, because no one would miss it.
She hands him her stare, in which he takes with his own.
All tears, in love, are the tokens for appreciation, because we only cry when we wish someone to see, to notice, those waters. Unleashed from a frail heart, are such tears, raining from Adrian’s eyes like dew that trails itself along a blade of grass.
He runs to her.
Adrian runs to Catherine, for an embrace, and a kiss upon her mouth so that he may taste her tongue.
He wants to taste her tongue, taste her words as though they are literally upon its flesh.
It is a woman’s tongue that is the color of scarlet, a pinkish hue too easy to notice, to be ever blind to; and, as love floats along the air like the pollen in the month of May, we breathe it, without noticing.
When men see a woman, hear her speech, they ought to go into a state of admiration for her voice, so much that he should weep before its sound.
As she may weep, so should a man weep.
“I have become an alcoholic, after I made her cry,” says the feeling man, who committed the gravest error. The feeling man, as any feeling man, will drink sorrow away, because he failed to drink a woman’s tears.