Sometimes, at night, I wake up and I listen to her breathing. Her breathing is strained, difficult, because of the cigarettes she smokes. Sometimes it seems to me that she is crying in her sleep, in her dream. Then I raise my head, lean it upon my hand and I study her face, her eyeballs trembling under the closed eyelids. I can see the tears making their way down through her long lashes, and rolling slowly along her temple until they drop on the pillow. When she weeps I know what she is dreaming of, and I don’t have to guess what is going through that crazy head of hers that I love so much. I know that she dreams of the child whom we shall never have. And I gently wipe the tears or kiss them, sometimes touching my finger to one of the salted drops and tasting it.