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    Summary

    In retrospect, Abbacchio couldn’t remember who confessed first, or if there even was one. There probably wasn’t, he decided. A confession of love was something they couldn’t’ve afforded. That would’ve required a different kind of life, one where they met in softer circumstances, slowly got to know each other, gently feeling out the shape of the other’s soul with their fingertips…

    No, such luxury was not given to them. Still, they were all too keenly aware of each other’s feelings. It was something that was never said out loud, but they both knew it was there. However, there was also the silent agreement that pursuing the other was out of the question.


    In the moments of his death, Abbacchio recounts his memories with Buccellati, and all of the things left unsaid.

    Language:
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