The Bugaboo had dark eyes with little wrinkles at the corners that marked their indomitable curiosity and its normal consequences. Eyes as deep as black wells of mystery and of who knows what adventures.
She would discover his secrets – she believed so – and the steady points along the slippery walls.
People said that the Bugaboo could not fall in love, his heart had become as hard as a stone and more arid than a stretch of sand one thousand miles away from the sea. A sea that could swallow and cancel him forever.
Perhaps he had never had a heart (even children know it!), but she didn’t want to believe it. When he was sleeping she was dreaming, when he was laughing she was feeling happy, when he was eating she was feeling satiated, when he was suffering she was falling ill.
Every day she looked for a new device, a new love composition to approach that restless soul. Patient interpreter of words and silences.
One evening like so many others, as she came home after her experiments, she went to bed more tired: a bit of his blackness had stuck to her, her eyes had become dark with little wrinkles at their corners, a mark of his indomitable curiosity and of its implications.
Somebody says that she can’t no longer fall in love. Her heart has turned as hard as a stone and more arid than a stretch of sand one thousand miles away from the sea.
She had forgotten her name.