He looked at her, she smiled, and he knew she knew. Slowly he came closer, opened the pad and started reading, in a low voice, in his smooth, disarming accent, the one he used when he really wanted to seduce, to sell, to be adopted: the last paragraph of his novel.
She was listening, still looking at his face as he read, an infinite tenderness on her lips and eyes, his muse, his wife, his soulmate, his partner. He paused, and she asked: “so you have finished?” “Yes”, he answered, a few tears running down his face, “it’s done, and I love you more since it is our story”. She loved his tears.