What did she love? It certainly wasn't him. How could it be? Who in their right mind would love him? Or could love him?
Was it part of him? Or part of her? That certain part of her? No, he didn't think so. She chewed his nose and his ears frequently – just gently, it didn't hurt. Perhaps she liked it. Perhaps not.
But she definitely loved something. That was very clear to him. Why he did not know.
He searched her apartment, yes her apartment. They had met at a party, somehow they went back to her place. She said that he was tired and pushed him into her bed. He remembered kicking off his shoes – he slept.
Since then he lived with her in her apartment. It was full of pastel colours – her choice of course. He did not care for pale colours, but it made the flat light and airy. She did not ask him to stay – he did not ask to stay – he stayed.
He had read about a girl who loved her laptop computer and another who loved an aeroplane, a Boeing 737. So where was it? The thing that she loved. He knew he could not be jealous of a thing. Besides, he did not know if he loved her. Probably not, though she was very nice, she chewed his nose and his ears frequently – just gently, it didn't hurt.
He had also read about the little girl and Gordon. Every day she visited the huge statue of General Gordon riding a camel, she was very fond of Gordon, she made up stories about him, everybody knew that she liked Gordon.
Her father was a diplomat and got another posting. Her mother took her for the last time to see Gordon and said how great and magnificent Gordon was on the back of the camel. “No, no, Gordon is the camel. Who that guy on his back is I don't know.”
He said to himself, “The more I read, the less I know. What does she love?”
She said to herself, “The more he reads, the less he knows.” She told him one day, probably at breakfast, “You read too much. Don't read! Write!”
He thought of asking her if it was Gordon that she loved, or perhaps a camel. Before he could open his mouth she said no.
He sat in bed with one arm around her and tried to write about what she loved or about what he thought she loved. He did not say what he was writing about and she did not ask.
Not an easy task, he wrote the same sort of dribble as you are reading now. It did not help him much, but having his arm around her was nice, good even.
Good, she thought to herself, he's trying to write, perhaps after a few years he will learn to write.
He was however the right colour, which matched the pink bedclothes that she really loved.