He comes in, a bit shamefaced. He needs help with a translation, and he is late. Emilia smiles, she's happy to see him, all about him so open and honest.
They get to work, there won't be enough time to finish, so they're trying to go as fast as they can, as far as they can.
His writing is awfully complicated. A thicket of details makes it impossible to wander in, and he insists on keeping them all. And then he's dyslexic as hell. She loves the inventiveness of his language, but it doesn't make it easier to understand.
This is not the first time they sit together over his work. She has accepted to help him in full knowledge of what was coming. All the same, she takes a deep breath.
And plunges. She argues, comments, simplifies, follows his will with the ease of habit.
But no. Not the ease of habit. This is new. All of a sudden, the warm relief of not feeling responsible anymore overwhelms her. She used to fight, desesperately wanting to make his words accessible to strangers.
Now she just tries to do it as he wants it. Just translates his particular twist of mind.
For a long time, years ago, they were a couple.