Mattia was right: the days had slipped over her skin like a solvent, one after the other, each removing a very thin layer of pigment from her tattoo, and from both of their memories. The outlines, like the circumstances, were still there, black and well delineated, but the colors had merged together until they faded into a dull, uniform tonality, a neutral absence of meaning.

Feeling special is the worst kind of cage a person can build for himself.

The scene was set. All that was required was an action, a cold start, instant and brutal as beginnings always are.

She found herself thinking of how it would feel to be safely trapped in his arms, with no more possibility to choose.

You'll get used to it. In the end you won't even notice it anymore," he said. "How is that possible? It will always be there, right before my eyes." "Exactly," said Mattia. "Which is precisely why you won't see it anymore.

Why did you choose to stay here?" (...) "I don't know," he said. "It's as if there's more oxygen here.

All opening moves were the same, like in chess. You don't have to come up with anything new, there's no point, because you're both after the same thing anyway. The game soon finds its own way and it's only at that point that you need a strategy.