It was a calm summer afternoon in a big city. Nora and I walked hand in hand towards our favorite restaurant, a cheap pizzeria. It was where we met twenty years ago. I looked up at the Italian flag; it was dirty and ragged, probably never replaced since we met. I remember after our first pizza, twenty years ago, she told me that she had to go home alone, but later she would tell me that she actually wanted me to come with her.
We walked into the restaurant and sat down at our table.
“You see,” I said, chewing on my anchovies-encrusted slice. “Words are like magic. Not a trick or prestidigitation, but real magic. I will give you an example. Tell me a secret.”
“I have no secrets from you,” Nora said giggling.
“But I know you do.” I squinted my eyes.
“Okay,” she said and put down her slice. She wore a serious face. “Remember our first lunch, twenty years ago?” she asked.
I nodded, full-mouthed.
“I told you I had to go home alone, but I actually wanted you to come with me.”
“Good. You see, I knew that, since I wrote it already.”
Nora chuckled. “What do you mean?” she asked, wiping her mouth.
“It’s all there!” I said excitedly. “Written in my short story called Fiction. Outside parentheses, Nora, in the first paragraph. I can see it. Quite clearly,” I replied.
Nora laughed with a sneer. “But that’s no magic! I just told you the secret. Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Oh, it’s easy. We do not exist.”