It’s worse than all my arthritis problems combined.
She “helped” me get into the car, drove a few kilometers on the highway, then took the exit towards this anonymous gas station, lost between the vineyards and the sun-scorched fields.
“I need to think, stay here,” she told me as she parked near the pumps.
I saw her go past the windshield, fill up her tank, buy a takeaway coffee, and glance very quickly in my direction.
Our eyes met for a second.
Then she turned the key, started the car, and it drove off, a small grey speck disappearing on the slip road, leaving me alone with the heat, the noise of the trucks, and a handbag placed next to me.
I started crying like a child.
That’s when the old two-wheeler arrived.
The engine made a dull noise, not
