I know she comes here sometimes.
I lift a glass to her health, in exchange.
Even though I never finished translating the last text she left to me, sometimes I still wait for few more words comin', telling that she's eventually changed her mind, she's got a ticket, she's passing by. Other times I believe it's better just to remember those two eyes on top of a coffee cup. That's indestructible, nothing will ever come to mess up here. Memories are so tidy and strong.
Then I change my mind.
She's so ridiculously close, not even a ocean from here. That's unfair. And I'm becoming cheesy, that's silly, I know. Basta. But it's night, I'm less bound and I can't help recalling the alleys of Hoi An (and I'm also a bit upset, 'cause I can't find anymore the url of her second blog).
Heaps of stuff is changed since then: I don't play soccer with kids now (ok ok, I've never done that), I don't bargain for fruit anymore. But take it easy, the foolish smile is always the same. Just a bit less hair on my face.
And apparently I still write for her.
I don't think to her all the time, but I'd love to see her appearing, around the corner, on that very same pedicab again. Or on another one. Or on a bus, a car, a bicycle, a train. It doesn't matter that much. I don't know where I'd go, but I'm pretty sure I'd drive her farther, this time.
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