Considerami un satellite, in orbita per sempre.

Two strangers sit on opposite sides of the room. No one speaks, no one moves. They sit for an hour and watch the other’s small movements, the soft dances of their fingers, their arms. The man on the right adjusts his shirt, pulling of his jacket and a shiny scar stretches across the narrow of patch of skin he reveals. The woman sitting across from him thinks of surgery as she twists the ring on her finger - her husband had had surgery too. The man sees the ring and taps out a beat to the song he danced to with his wife at his wedding. The woman hears the beat and remembers her son’s drum kit now sitting in the garage collecting dust as she pulls out a mirror and fixes her hair. A wig, the man thinks, as he runs a hand over his balding head and relives the days of bootcamp, taking out a faded envelope. The woman scrolls through the applications on her phone, a boy of seven smiles in the background. The man brushes dirt from his knees and examines a picture of a young girl, maybe five. The flowerbeds need weeding, the woman thinks as she sets her phone down, showing a small tattoo of a hummingbird on her wrist. The man pulls out an ipod and jazz filters out through the speakers as he flips past sketches of ravens in a notebook. The woman goes through choreography in her head, her feet moving as the rest of body dances inside her heart. After the hour is done, both pick up their things and exit through different doors. Briefly their eyes meet, hers the color of the lake he used to swim in as a kid and his the color of chocolate, milky like the kind she brought home to her son as a treat. He looks down at the sketchbook in his hand, a hummingbird, he knows, sits on the last page.