She was tears. She stood, she looked down where there were yellow squares of tape marking where she wanted the camera to be. And she stood there, in the place where things where visible while she could see them, pulling the camera away from the television where she was filming the footage of the husband she had just left.
Knowing, as she did, where he stood on the roof smoking, the day of his alone. This is what he said to his therapist:
“Tell the city how much I love her shadows, and how much I thought of her yesterday when I sat in the back row of a funeral, counting my knuckles. “
He had decided, so many years before he had to, that it would be her nurse and not him that would look at each photograph as she started to die. Meanwhile he was veering off course, leaning his bicycle into the oncoming traffic in Madrid.
The camera frames a piece of the wall.
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