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The seaweed caresses her hair. Her eyes and mouth have faded from her face, slipping from the minds of those who do not want to stop remembering her, who do not want to forget her, who cannot forget her. And there she is, simply, turning her back on you, but without disappearing, because she does not want to disappear from your life, simply to be there, so that, according to her convenience and tranquility, or in case some miracle happens, she can turn around and find that you are still there, unflaggingly, as if you had nothing better to do than give her your whole being.
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