She grabbed her bag, hustling with her eyes wide open, her breath getting shorter, ignoring the questions of the people sitting around her. She went out from the pub and took out a piece of paper and a pen, writing down the memories of the last two weeks that time was erasing from her mind.



Watching at her reflection – greasy hair, puffed cheeks, watery red eyes, stained t-shirt – she slowly took out a white hair clip from her purse, which she used to pull back a lock just above her ear.


Standing still in the middle of the moistened green, high percentage behaviour, she tried to lean forward, right, left, as if her feet were as heavy as the plinth of a column – the ones shoring up the pinched ceiling in that rounded church in Rome.


Seeing him from a distance, she wanted to make him notice she was there, but all that came out from her purple poodle-skirt dress was an unclear sound, a guttural call, so feeble to get lost in the glares of the tepid pool.


The sun was diving into the sea line. Its orange was dense, but not bright to the point that she could not look at it with bare eyes, dividing its semicircle into notches, slices of a melatonin fruit she could delight in before the come of the crescent light.


He had a long, white beard, walked barefoot, used a wooden bowl and cutlery to eat his meals, a present from a South African tribe with which he used to live after dropping his job as an accounting specialist in Cape Town.