I met you in bar when I was feeling miserable and slightly drunk.
Your hand on my back felt like crashing meteorites in ways I never experienced before or maybe it was just me or nothing important, really.
I told you that the walls were coming closer and that I cried over a monkey chained to a car in Kenya and that I loved Stanley Kubrick, though he is dead and I never really met him.
And oh yeah, my dog had died today.
Fact: we first met in fall and that wasn't already the best start we could get.
You broke me in ways that weren't countable in bone fractures or epileptic seizures.
My doctor fed me pills. For insomnia and depressia and headaches and things I had never heard of and names I can´t recall.
Maybe we couldn't fit because we were so different, but I kept believing in you for more reasons than that my spine curved under the touch of your hand alone.
Fact: you hated Stanley Kubrick.
I am a biologist. You are an economist.
I would tell you that some animals have an inner argument about whether to fight or flight.
Later I would write that down in my empty notebook, because that was our entire story in less than twenty words.
You would always multiply, divide and count until you figured out our story wasn't proportional to the sum of the days we would fight and have incredible make up sex afterwards.
We never understood each other.
Fact: dividing or multiplying by zero has always been an impossible case.