when our memories die

 
fifteen days, in the same room, same cleaning lady, same fade breakfast, same package of cigarettes. Look like she knows even how many of them I smoked in each morning. Perhaps she know also that i faked the coffee machine, for getting a strong one, also about the omelette... Actually I doubt is something about me that she didn't found out yet. All this time I believed that she was some kind of a step mother who did not care too much about me, only about how I behave. Now, it's my last morning, packed and ready. She looked at me like a last time, how probably it is. A bit sad, for me, not because i am leaving. The hole road to the airport was stocked with the idea that I just met the universal tape of memories, she must be that one.