He barely understood why he had never felt like he had that day: a natural accomplice, he would listen to himself like an idler, then he would do it perfectly according to himself. Who was he, anyway? Julio Rey, born on a rainy Thursday, with an Aries sign, should always be the same, in a game of chance with time. The streets were the same, his house, his life: the one he left long ago, when the leaves of March fell.

Julio Rey was in the midst of his thinking, preparing for his descent into time. He would find himself romantic again, demanding the same lips, caressing the known ecstasy. He would get it back, the only thing he lacked was his clothes, however, he chose not to give it much importance, although he doubted, because he did not know how important that checkered shirt could have been under the afternoon sun and the reflection that came out of his eyes.

Mariemilia would be stunned by the sermons of that Sunday, remembering that amidst laughter and blessings the parish priest was dismissing the parishioners at the church door. She stumbled and Julio Rey leaped into her arms and prevented the fall, she smiled palely, almost lifeless. The breeze blew the square away, dragging away the dry leaves.

And who are you, then? Do you even know me? How can you see me, if you never look at the sides, you don't realize that my eyes have chased you and my sense of smell discovers your perfume in the distance, my life has long since been a spinning star in your atmosphere. ...years ago... I thought, Julio Rey.

Now he felt the desire was greater, and time had to allow it. Everything had to be the same. His hands, his eyes. For the second time you conquered her with the same gestures, the same words, the same breath, the same month. When they went down the street the square was a lonely place where the night and March were peaceful.

You want to go back again. You look at the leaves of March, that month where you cultivated your dreams and passions, where history was lost and became comforting. Now you want to come back for a third time, hear again the murmur of the wind blowing through the square as the leaves rolled wildly, see again his sad smile, his very face.

Mariemilia has always written the same letters, which I read over and over again and my life is filled with those moments when we were furtive criminals of love. Again I want to arrive with my hands fresh on that Sunday afternoon in March, with the same gestures and words.

I've got it all planned out. We've never met, I'll be someone else, I mean that history is dragging me relentlessly into the inexorable. You don't know about my hands, about my words.

Julio Rey stood up and smiled facing the mirror. Her gaze was the same as the one that 18 years ago made Mariemilia fall in love for the first time. Then he left and returned for the second time, without a hint of old age to conquer her. What difference does it make to come back a third time? I'm not old enough and I don't care what people say, it will be the same or with some differences. I'll come to your house after mass. I will say the necessary words: I want your lips, your love, your body. I want to repeat your March name Mariemilia, your spring, your skin.

"This is my home," said Mariemilia, as beautiful as ever, young as ever. Julio Rey could not contain his emotion, although he felt fear and his steps were not so serene. She, sitting on the couch, waited, gone, looking at the March leaves. The light touched her silvery hair. Julio Rey watched her from the darkness and a hot air stabbed her insides, burned him, he felt that her strength was leaving him and her bones seemed incapable of supporting his body. She threw herself on her knees before Mariemilia, her hands fluttering in disarray, pleading once more for her March love.

Perfect the gestures, the breath. The murmur of the wind was an old melody that awakened the nostalgia Julio Rey clung to Mariemilia's legs; She did not understand, she rose, taking away those hands that lost everything.

March was lost in the breeze and became entangled in Mariemilia's hair. Tears mounted on the dry leaves and hurriedly escaped. The neighbors were upset by a heartbreaking scream that disturbed the evening. March was no longer Mariemilia, nor was Julio Rey preparing for her return. March was the wind that played with the leaves, March was a sea of mirrors in the hair of Mariemilia and Julio Rey was a shipwrecked man with no island to reach.

Fountain