Rapciune pe Moselle

Plec dimineata, inainte de 8. E intotdeauna cel putin racoare, uneori frig de-a binelea. Sunt dimineti limpezi, cu cer senin si aburi care se tarasc peste rau, ca o ceata laptoasa de suprafata. Sunt dimineti cu Infected Mushroom, Cure sau Trentemoller in urechi.


Merg pe bicicleta pe langa apa, pe pista care serpuieste printre copaci, tufe de mure si buruieni inalte. Trec podul peste Moselle si, odata cu asta, granita dintre Germania si Luxemburg. O iau prin centrul pietonal al micului orasel si leg bicicleta in fata la Centre Sportif et Culturel. Cobor spre statia de autobuz si, in cateva minute, sunt instalata comod pe scaun, cu cartea in brate:

"Every morning, before breakfast, and before I come here, your mother and I go to the guest room, the animals follow us, I thumb through the blank pages and gesture laughter, and gesture tears, if she asks why I'm laughing or crying about, I tap my finger on the page, and if she asks, "Why?" I press her hand against her heart, and then against my heart, or I touch her forefinger to the mirror, or touch it, quickly, against the hotplate, sometimes I wonder if she knows, I wonder in my Nothingness moments if she's testing me, if she types nonsense all day long, or if she types nothing at all, just to see what I'll do in response, she wants to know if I love her, that's all anyone wants from anyone else, not love itself but the knowledge that love is there, like new batteries in the flashlight in the emergency kit in the hall closet (...)"

I love Jonathan Safran Foer. And I love autumn.