I know what you're thinking

I know what you're thinking when you look at me sitting next to me in the car, and you know I know it. Then you gently place your hand on my leg and hold it there for a few moments. I shift gears, turn the corner. When I enter that avenue lined with beautiful chestnut trees, I can finally look at you longer because there's little traffic. You keep looking, looking into my eyes, and I know what you're thinking. A broad smile lights up my face. You smile back. You move your hand to my head. You ruffle my hair. You run the back of my cheek. You allow me to kiss you. Then, with a sudden movement, you kiss my temple, to which I respond with laughter, a glance at your beaming face, and at your hand, which, suddenly moving from your head to the steering wheel and turning it sharply, steers the car straight into the embrace of a huge chestnut tree.

I know what you're thinking. One long look over my cup of tea was enough. I was in love with you again, a shiver ran down my spine, butterflies in my stomach started flying. You suggested a ride because it was such a beautiful day. You said it had been a long time since we'd driven this highway into the sun, and you probably didn't remember that avenue of chestnut trees where we'd met. I playfully commented that it had been a long time since we'd ridden our steed, to which you laughed and kissed my cheek.

"I know what you're thinking," I heard your voice and opened my eyes. Your face was next to mine, sideways on the pillow. Those wonderfully sleepy eyes, a slightly stuffy nose.

"I'm not thinking, I'm just sleeping," I said groggily, trying to doze off again.

"You're thinking, you're thinking," you whispered in my ear. "You just don't know it yet.

" "You're right. Although not anymore. You're not right anymore, because now I know." I remembered. The gift is in the garage. The same one as always, so you won't be disappointed—I saw your wonderfully brightening smile. "And I even washed it yesterday," I added proudly.

"I know you washed it. You always wash it for our anniversary and you always think I won't notice," you said with a smile. "But this year I'll surprise you.

" "I hope..." I began flirtatiously, but you interrupted me.

"And it will be just like when we first met.

" "Then I'll make some tea," I said, slightly dazed, and shuffled to the kitchen.

I know what you're thinking long before you even think of it. I know that tomorrow is our anniversary, that you'll wake up in the morning and look at me, at my face softened by sleep, and the same story will flash in your mind, the exact same event from years ago when we met in that place. You'll stretch a few times, think it over carefully, and this time you won't say it's not time yet. This time you know exactly that the time has come, and you know that I'll know it in the morning, too. So, by smiling at me with that most beautiful of your smiles, you will begin the next part of the puzzle with the well-known "I know what you're thinking."

"I know what you're thinking," I thought for the first time when, walking along the chestnut avenue, I saw your gaze fixed on me. You were smiling, but only slightly, yet that smile spoke volumes. And I would have missed you, which you're probably unaware of, if not for the accident that first threw us onto the lawn, the force of reflexes protecting our faces from shattering glass, and luck preventing even a scratch. A second later, everything froze, and only the steam billowing from the wreckage of the car tried to keep the situation moving. You were the first to rise, run over, and offer me your hand. You were the first at the door, the first to call for a fire extinguisher. And the first to stop them from pulling them out. You closed their eyes and turned your beautiful face to me.

I know what you're thinking. I know. I know that the words I speak are also your own. I know that thoughts, as they intertwine, complement and reinforce each other, because they're easier to hear that way. And I know that before the window pane transformed into a fantastic auburn spiderweb, the corner of my conscious eye caught figures who, having first jumped away, a moment later tried to pull us from our frozen situation. And now, seeing how the approaching hand will soon close our ninety-year-old eyelids, I know that, thinking of the mistake you made decades ago, when instead of letting the old people look at each other, you closed their eyes, you, along with me, hurl the most tender curses at her papillary, because you knew the story would end immediately with

(a finality).