The Secret Lover (L'amante segreto)

David

                                                                           PREFACE

There are many ways to love. And there is only one to forget. And that's the worst one. The only possibility you have to forget something or someone is time. And only time can tell is whether we have forgotten enough or not. Then the memories of that love become blurred, we almost no longer realize it. Regardless of how a love story ends, what really matters is what has been left to the other and what has been learned. Some time ago two artists decided to break up, but only after having traveled a long road together, and followed the path backwards without ever looking back. There is no worse ending or better ending. All loves that end are breaches in the heart of every individual. Sometimes, a story can end before it has even begun, or it can end without either of you ever realizing it. Sometimes, a story can end and leave nothing, but more often it leaves us something that we will carry with us forever.

                                                                              CHAPTER I

His heart still beat for her. Her absence killed him. She had left him too soon, and in the worst way. And he knew that the only way to overcome this pain was to find out who he was. Only in this way could he forget. And only in this way could he take revenge.

Autumn was in full swing. The leaves broke off with overwhelming violence from the branches of the trees. The wind pushed them away from the large oaks that inhabited the dense forest. The leaves moved in a strange circular and non-uniform motion, as if dancing carried by a deep background music. It was a quiet day, a typical autumn day full of serenity. The flat calm that reigned freely and sweetly took over.

He was sitting on a rock, near a large mature stump, observing the movement of the tree branches, gently touched by the wind. The feeling he felt was indescribable. It reminded him of when he and Julia walked in the woods, hand in hand, like two young novice lovers. The memory of her, who touched his hand with her small fingers, the moments of tenderness when she approached his face, seeking a never banal kiss. David took a leaf in his hand and began to break it into pieces, imagining that it was a flower and that he was peeling off the petals. He stared at the beauty that nature was offering him for a few minutes, then put his hands in his pockets and headed home.

Once he returned to his home, he felt the warmth hit him, like the sea wave hitting the shore. The fireplace was out, but the embers were still burning.

The house was built with very precious wood. It had a large living room, there was a bookcase and a large fireplace. Lying on the floor is a bearskin rug and a small table carved in ebony. But his favorite part was certainly the red armchair, covered in very fine green fabric, which an old aunt of his had left him.

David entered the bathroom and looked at the mirror, massaging his beard and face. His hair was unkempt and he had two large bags under his eyes. He couldn't even remember the last time he slept without waking up to think about her. Three months had passed, but he still couldn't get over it. He lay down on his double bed, placed his round black glasses on the old bedside table and rested his head on the pillow with the same delicacy that a mother uses to caress her child. In a few moments, staring domineeringly at the wooden beams of the ceiling, the eyelids half closed, and David fell into Morpheus' arms.

He woke up with a start. He thought he was in the real world, but he had only dreamed. Indeed, he had dreamed. Again. He got out of bed and looked at the grandfather clock at the end of the room, almost three hours had passed. It was sixteen minutes past five. His mind immediately took him to the bed, which needed to be made up, and where he had slept without even getting under the covers. The absence of her afflicted him even more when he mulled over these details.