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In a castle In a kiosk in a house

The newspaper seller is sitting inside his kiosk and you can enjoy an early summer heat. There is nobody on the street, but he wants to talk, bring an old green sweater, maybe it's too hot, but does not want to remove it. He wants to sit. It is enough. Think of her daughter, morose, that it did not go to school, he saw the cigarettes in her purse. The fact that perhaps showed them to him on purpose, to make him a reaction, to scold her. The fact that he does not know scold her. Think wife which ultimately is not early risers, who wants to stay in bed, pretending to sleep, but in reality is preparing to want new things, while he gets dressed to go out early, at dawn. It opens the kiosk when the moon has not yet disappeared and the strips of plastic waste bins flapping in the wind. Now they are two in the afternoon, feel the windows of the houses to the sounds of cutlery on plates collide. The newspaper seller wants to sit. It is enough. In quest'edicola of an ancient city in the south, not far from a small railway station, enters a woman dressed in white. Behind us is a man. She is beautiful. Long straight hair, blacks, simple but very well kept. It has an arm cast, the right, the door hung an elegant purple scarf tied around his neck that goes down. Sunglasses resting on his forehead discover a warm look, a serene smile. Its light scent, but that does not invade strikes, spreads between newspapers and magazines of puzzles. The seller looks at it. His gaze may not be discreet, because soon the woman will go, he did not see her again, do not want to miss even a second of his presence. The man behind it, has a sports clothing, eyeglasses, which has just taken off for easier reading the cover of a book. Her face is a bit 'contract, is distracted, as he reads the title of that novel, top man thinks he has seen the day before, drunk, with a bouquet of flowers clutched in right hand trembling, he thinks the story that he told him. She turns to him, touches him with his left hand, calls him because he wants to show the cards, "Compriamone one, send to my sister." The seller sees this gesture with his hand and soul. He smiles for a moment. Would probably be somewhere else, I think if all those years ago had responded differently to the man with the funny blue raincoat, his life would now be different, not in paper walls, waiting for a new fire. The man comes to pay, showing the postcard: "How much do I owe for this?". "Twenty cents ... No wait, they are fifty. " "Ah, excuse me," the man says, "are a bit 'distracted." Seller's smiles, choosing the right moment: "You are too much in love." The woman, who watched while other cards, we turn now to him, smiles and looks at him with kindness, then turned to the man, he still takes the hand, would embrace him, but with his arm in plaster is hard. Then she leans her head to him, bending a corner of his mouth and says all'edicolante: "You are right. You're right. " At that moment I saw the eyes of the seller be slight. Only slightly. Yes, also because I was there, in quell'edicola. And I've seen everything.

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"Writing just bullshit! I always thought, but I never told you. Because I thought I love you. " He says furious, angry, disappointed. He can no longer restrain himself. He arrived with a bouquet of flowers, with an aftertaste of wine, pretending to be happy, and willing. Ten minutes before she was looking in the mirror near the entrance of the apartment. Since I do not love him more kindness than he becomes rudeness, slap in her caresses, kisses, bites in, the flowers and pieces of colored plastic with blood. "Writing just bullshit! I've always thought, but I never told you. Because I thought I love you. " He perceives these words as sips of poison, it hurts the liver for several days, she stopped eating because she is cold, he stopped doing research and write because he did not want to feel better, because he only needed her. Now it's sweaty, he ran quickly up the stairs to arrive on time. Because the flowers can not wait. She does not cry while spitting venom on him, he would think back on the first time. He was in a great hall, in the new university in the East, some colleagues are close to him, seeing him coming. An old teacher who does not know it is one of them, called him while he turns the sugar in a glass of tea: "So young and already so good." He cried in the bathroom of the faculty ten minutes later, thinking back to how all the frustrations of the past can be transformed into moments of light fulminans. But now, the walls of that apartment, everything is different: "Writing just bullshit! I always thought, but I never told you. Because I thought I love you. " Sweating stops, to speak, is high and ninety one, at that time are surprised to think of something stupid: "I wonder if the tears of a tall man like myself are larger than those of a man of normal height." He puts the flowers on the table, she turned to the wall white kitchen. He smokes. Him, without looking at it again, with his head bent, heads for the door. But there is a door. There are no walls. There is nothing solid. For him it is just emptiness. I know that. Because I was there that day. And I've seen everything.

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Francesco, Giuseppe, Stefano, Valerio

I felt pain, a sharp pain in going from Br home, taking the last things while you looked at me in disbelief. Yesterday, dragging my suitcase through the neighborhood Freedom in tears, with a lump in my throat, back behind the words of gratitude and affection that I never said. I try now. In my suitcase for the last time that rolled on the pavement via Putignani, there were: my flat white squares, plastic trays, the carpet color, the green sponge for the shower, the cruet, the filter for the tea, the pot to heat the water, my tea towels, small TV antenna with orange annoyed (forgive me for it ever broken?), the wonderful conversations about film and literature by Stephen and his exemplary manners, good morning screamed Dj Vale and his magical pan, the ringing of the phone to Don Joseph and his "Rocky "purple sweatshirt, the console of the lawyer and his speech is charming lawyer. If I were to ask what is the nostalgia, now say it is the moment when I realized that I no longer see these things; If you ask me what is the affection, I would think in those around me with these things, if they asked me what happiness is, think on these things. Thanks for everything, guys, when I arrived in Bari had not anyone in these two years you were my family. Never change.