Please could you proofread the last part of my short story:
I imagined that I followed her to her flat, where we drank wine, browsed through more books, talked philosophy, politics, love and art. She wanted me to tell her more about my homeland, the terrible war which had caused so much destruction and death of thousands of innocents. And I was explaining to her how it felt to hear the bombs exploding, people crying for help, wounded and killed lying on the streets, children searching for parents which would never come up alive...
I saw tears in her eyes, I heard her sobbing and I felt her hands stroking my hair.
Finally we ended up in her bed I while I caressed her slim body I thought how life could be great and I praised God to have created beauty to remind us of paradise.
I opened my eyes again and I saw that the woman was still reading her book, although she was breathing deeply, squirming, twitching and wrinkling her forehead. I was wondering if my thoughts could have passed over to her mind and caused her some kind of distraction or she even could see the scenes just as I had. I glanced at the other passengers, but their facial expressions seemed to be the same.
Could it be that this day was going to be one of the most important in my life when luck would finally be kind to me and bring light into darkness?
I was looking at her, asking myself if it could be that I was looking at my future wife and the mother of my future children? What a couple we could be, both intellectual and handsome - the whole city would look at us with envy.
Suddenly she closed the book with such a snap that it almost hurt my ears.
“What a bloody moron!” she shouted and looked at the woman with an A4 size notebook.
“Next week I had to write an essay, and I don´t understand anything. What a boring prick!”
“But you can always use the internet. There are hundreds of essays to download. Why bother and waste your time reading rubbish,” said the women with an A4 size notebook without looking up.
She had hardly finished her sentence when the beautiful woman had raised her right hand with the famous book and I did not know if she had done it voluntarily or the book had simply slipped through her fingers, but in the next moment I saw it falling to the floor and lying there just a few centimetres from my shoes.
I felt as if someone had stabbed my heart, insulted me, covered me in excrement or gouged my eyes out. I glanced at my fellow passengers, but nobody seemed to care that Sartre lay in dust.
Only the beautiful woman had found another occupation. With a metal file she was shaping the edges of her well-kept nails.
I was blushing and sweating again, feeling ashamed. I wanted to pick up the book and wipe dust from it, but I the fear of behaving differently from the others had paralysed my hands.
Thank you a thousand times for helping me. I really appreciate your help and you time.
God bless you.