J'ai perdu mon Eurydice

She cannot go home with him. With his air of endless injury, the mad anguish in his eyes. This man prematurely old - so different from the brash, laughing boy she married, so long ago now, she can no longer remember, in this place where silence is mortal and every arrival false.

Can it be that a different time runs through the hearts of lovers? That one lives from minute to minute, while the other counts the hours?

Is this what it means to be apart?

But how to tell him this? After all he has been through, all he has risked. Better to desert him than to betray him, turn away when he isn't looking, leave him leaving her behind.

Better that he should blame himself than he should understand her.

[for those unfamiliar with the title]