I see, I see - and it's your stupidity, of course, that has kept you alive so far. [ A pause that doesn't invite an answer or a response, just contemplation. What kind of life do you lead when it is stupidity and stubbornness, probably, that keeps you going?
They both know. ] Tell it not to stop quite yet, then.
[ As if it's just a matter of course, Michel puts down his coissant, places the butter within easy reach and, rather than begin buttering the already buttery pastry, he leans over and takes the small case with Timm's pills, opening it with an elegant and familiar movement, shaking the small handful of medicine out onto his palm before turning his hand over, placing the pills pointedly next to the other man's glass of juice.
Be stupidly alive, it means.
Afterwards, as if that whole display hasn't happened at all, Michel leans back in his seat again, prepares the croissant for the butter, butters it up and takes the first bite, making a comfortable humming sound at the taste. He glances at Timm over the swollen curve of the bread, a deep-held, empathetic look.
It's called age, he'd told Elio.
Elio who lives with the marriage canard now. Adopted the child whose mere notion once made him run from his longest-lasting lover. ]
We both know where we're going, don't we? [ It's not that he can't say 'death', it's that he doesn't need to. Because sometimes intelligence and knowledge do inhabit certain intersections. As Timm is the living proof of. ] And yet, we should stroll there, leisurely, we shouldn't run and fall and break a hip on the way.
no subject
They both know. ] Tell it not to stop quite yet, then.
[ As if it's just a matter of course, Michel puts down his coissant, places the butter within easy reach and, rather than begin buttering the already buttery pastry, he leans over and takes the small case with Timm's pills, opening it with an elegant and familiar movement, shaking the small handful of medicine out onto his palm before turning his hand over, placing the pills pointedly next to the other man's glass of juice.
Be stupidly alive, it means.
Afterwards, as if that whole display hasn't happened at all, Michel leans back in his seat again, prepares the croissant for the butter, butters it up and takes the first bite, making a comfortable humming sound at the taste. He glances at Timm over the swollen curve of the bread, a deep-held, empathetic look.
It's called age, he'd told Elio.
Elio who lives with the marriage canard now. Adopted the child whose mere notion once made him run from his longest-lasting lover. ]
We both know where we're going, don't we? [ It's not that he can't say 'death', it's that he doesn't need to. Because sometimes intelligence and knowledge do inhabit certain intersections. As Timm is the living proof of. ] And yet, we should stroll there, leisurely, we shouldn't run and fall and break a hip on the way.