What we talk when we talk about love. Is it a question? What? Is it a question? No, no. It’s a short story by Raymond… Chandler… what? No, no, Carver. Who’s Chandler? Don’t know, just a name in my mind. Did you read it ? A long time ago. What it is about? I’m not sure. There’s this guy in Albuquerque, doctor I think. He’s with a bunch of friend. They’re having dinner and they talk about love. And ? And… i’m quite sure where it was going. Anyway, I read it a long time ago. Who give it to you? The book? Yeah. A friend maybe. Who was he? I don’t know anymore. The only thing I can be sure of is that he exist. The ink on this paper bears witness to it, like the reflection of the other in a mirror, and reminds me that I am there, beside it, but there ... the pen between the legs asking myself who this other is. I must admit I still don’t know. Although we have a most intimate relationship, this other and I do not know each other. We exist for each other, but without ever directly exchanging aword. Unbeknownst to me, it sticks to every curve I put on this sheet a hint for him. He collects it without ever understanding where this scar on the paper comes from. Docile, he will follow the mark over the pages hoping to find there the figure he imagines from the cover. But when he’ll read my last words, he will have only the fugitive impression of another, also in a mirror, and of which he can not clearly distinguish his silhouette. That's probably why he's the only one who can tell me who I am. Unfortunately it is impossible for him to reveal it to me, because he too does not know that it is me this reflection ... next to him.
