Not without excitement, he had gotten closer to her face, as close he could distinguish the pink powder of make up applied to her cheekbone.
He was caressing her small arm, the daunting afternoon clouds running towards the horizon and with them the remaining of rain; the smell of wet soil filtered by the dead trees’ branches was filling up their silence.
A minuscole dimple encountered in his fondling, he looked down to a tiny white scar on her skin; but kept on cuddling her without talking.
She woke up, her clothes drenched in sweat. She caressed her humid hair, it was all still there. She then rolled her hand on the side of her bed, on which she found none.
She started nodding at the song’s rhythm miming the crowd around her, despite finding herself not enjoying that music in any possible way.
He should have verified of being out of her field vision, before exulting with a old-fashioned galop in the middle of the street.
He was struggling to get his ticket out. The creased hands shaking, although this had nothing to do with the queue of people that formed behind him.
She tapped the floor impatiently – it was 8:17 and she already was not aware of the amount of caffeine now spinning in her veins. Nonetheless, when he turned behind him with an astonished expression on his tired face, she did but smiled politely.
She grabbed the end of the skirt and exclaimed “This is really pretty indeed”, whispering as she folded the hem and noticing the loose stitches in the inside.