Love has died, he knew, as he left that warm tavern, with nothing left but the lingering aroma of coffee, a few laughs and a few shared common sentiments, mostly acknowledged out of good manners than any firm convictions. Love has died he thought, as he walked the way to his rooms, having left the warm tavern behind, with nothing but the almost dazed recollection of memories, those that he was not even sure of now, such memories as do sometimes so richly haunt a person, even a man.It seemed beyond belief how love could die so easily, as he had heard or seen before though such things always happen to the stranger, to the unknown man or woman, in the papers, in a corner of some forgotten corner of some memory. How strange was it, it seemed to him, to convince himself that from now onwards life would be the same night and day but different, for the dominant belief of his life, the over-riding emotion of his wakeful hours had been snatched, been shattered by the reality of revealing time. How matter of fact, how un-nerving and yet how sudden, how bereft of feeling itself and yet how mellow this feeling, how unthoughtful and yet how full of thought was this thought that kept echoing in his mind, this thought that there was no love in his life any more, that love had died, this thought as he walked to his rooms, on this particularly uncold but windy night, on this unusually slow moving night, this night that had been drawn from a list of lonely nights.
Love has died, he knew and with each step away and each step towards this new reality, something was dying inside him as something hard, something cold and something fishy, something like death was taking hold of him, with each step towards this new reality, with each step away from that warm tavern, from that warm person that he had once known, towards that very cold person he had become.