- Oh... yes, from time to time I do develop some feelings that express some kind of sympathy for you. Most of the time a tristesse, like when you hurt yourself. A mother instinct comes up and I just want to stick a plaster on you knee and draw a happy face on it. Is that the kind of caring that you had in mind?
I'm talking about our relationship! Do you still love me?
- God no!
How could you say something like that?
- It's just words, my love. My mouth can't express what lives in my soul, so I hide the words behind a mask of carelessness. A carelessness for your beauty, intelligence, your awfully lovely voice.
So within you do care about me?
- No. I figured out that caring is just a burdened state of mind, a mental suffering so you wish. I care about environmental issues, about the influence of smoking on my health, and you know why I care about that? Out of pure egoism. Both will inevitably kill me, and no one aims for dead, do they? I have absolutely no benefit by caring about you, so why should I?
Out of love?
- Listen, I don't aim to enlight you at this very moment about the meaning of love! And marriage, at least ours, is no more than the union of two different surnames. Please, go care about dinner.
You're not listening to a word I'm saying, aren't you?
- No, that's right. The last time I sincerely listened to you must have been sometime in 1902.
So, what have you been doing the past years, if not listening to me?
- I did a lot of thinking. You know, it seems to me that too much people spend time gazing back in the past these days. I'm thinking ahead and stopped looking back to sailing trips I've never made and squirrels I never could embrace because I frighten them. Mostly a bol of hot soup could bring salvation.
How can soup be incorporated in the story?
- While burning my thongue I wasn't able to be melancholic towards departed greatness, nor days of perishing with hunger.
Pas vrai!
- Of course. And afterwards I could only think about the consequences, how I would be forced to taste you lovely gâteaux just guided by my nose or how I would never have the chance to tell you how hideous your handmade baskets are.
