The night comes into the room. And through the window, a breeze of sameness enters room, which she refuses to breathe.
He's sat on a chair, reading a book. Slowly, his left foot stretches to touch her ankle. He closes the book and says: "You deserve being loved; I love you"
"Don't be a fool, words don't do to me in this matter anymore" - she replies, while scribbling something on a pad, without looking at him.
"Do you see this?" - she lifts the notepad - "This is not love but abstractions"
Placing the notepad back on the floor, she continues scribbling. The tip of the pencil breaks.
"Have you noticed I don't really say "I love you"? - She postulates.
"Love is neither a word, nor a feeling one can apprehend in a piece of paper"
"Love is a way of life"
"A verb, an action, which can only be realised when it impregnates the senses; so deeply the body can only speak the language of its own experience"
Standing up, she takes off her T-shirt. Her body reflects the night light coming through the window. She stands in front of him. She grabs his right hand and place it on her left thigh: "Can words express touch? Smell? Pain? Desire? Taste?" - "No matter how much we strive for we will never find words to convey Love, because we are yet to know what Love is."
She walks away from him.
Bending down, she grabs the pad from the floor, and rip off the paper from the pad: "Love cannot be written. We don't know what love is. Look at the world, do you think we know what love is?"