Her skin, he thinks while caressing her arm, examining every fine blonde hair, delicate as down, looks so young in the light of the bedside lamp. Her delicate skin, he thinks while envisioning her in a tuxedo, or perhaps just wearing the jacket, double-breasted but unbuttoned, with a bowtie around her neck; her mother’s high-heel shoes, which are clearly too big for her, the only other item of clothing covering her naked body as she stands before him, aloof and domineering, despite being only a girl. Thus the screenwriter imagines her, repenting his decision to get rid of his camera equipment, not that he could realize his vision onstage in the little theater where they rehearse, let alone the church in which they’re going to perform their concerts. He caresses her delicate skin. What does No World mean? he asks her. She answers without blinking, without taking her eyes off the ceiling: it means a reality existing parallel to ours, a reality that’s essentially the same as ours, but seen through a different lens. A No World, she clarifies, exists in another dimension. The screenwriter wants to know if she still thinks about him. She usually gives a vague answer tending toward an affirmative, as if telling a white lie to conceal a dark truth, in order to protect his feelings, while he knows he’s playing the role of the jealous old fool to a T, a fool who can’t conceal his jealousy, who can’t prevent himself interrogating her, who can’t abide not knowing everything about her, because perhaps he feels his life with her is something of a miracle, and he needs her reassurance that it’s real, he needs her to tell him that she loves him. Just a little bit? he suggests to her. Even if it’s only a little bit, he hears himself whispering softly. Then silence. The two of them lie motionless on the sheets. She confesses that whenever she makes love to the young orchestra conductor, she thinks of him. A cold chill runs through his body. The girl doesn’t notice this reaction, although she knows the effect her words have on him, this old teacher who is waiting for the least gesture, even a hint of acquiescence on her part, any sense that she might be willing to run away with him, as far away as possible, to that new life which exists only in his mind; this old teacher who listens patiently to her paranoid ravings about the shadows that pursue her, and about her unhealthy obsession with writing; this old screenwriter who entertains her wild speculations about the nonexistence of the world — only a dream, she says, drifting in the immensity of space — a poor old man who listens to her every word, who only wants to hear her say she loves him, who asks her, intimidated, gently holding her hand, as she allows some seconds of doubt to pass, then tells him, in a deliberately irresolute tone, that she does, she loves him. Is this another white lie? he asks. No, she says, pausing to let in more doubt, it isn’t. The old man closes his eyes; she climbs out of the bed to get dressed; he responds by stretching out his hand, his eyes still closed, as if wanting a last touch of her skin, his arm — the stretch sustained for some seconds before failing, before falling on the sheets — reaching weakly after her. Will you come back? he asks her. I always do, she says, I’ve never stopped coming back. The conversation ends without her saying another word, not even good-bye; not slamming the door, closing it gently behind her, as he stays motionless, his eyes still closed, dreaming of her delicate skin, remembering her words, the sound of her voice. Then the usual fluttering in his stomach: he’s not sure if he can bear only having the memory of her. He repeats the question again and again, does she love him; will it be forever? He gets up and goes to the window. This time, he doesn’t look at the building opposite but at something down on the street, something that doesn’t exist as yet. There’s a man on a corner watching him from the shadows, trying to go unnoticed, but the screenwriter doesn’t see, his eyes clouded, searching for a girl in white, he doesn’t want to see anything unless it’s decked in white. He sits at his desk, whispers the words that cause him so much anguish, will you come back? tears welling up in his eyes, blearing all color and shape, as the whisper drifts over the blank page and typewriter, then out through the window, and into the immensity of space.