Moon

It was dark.

It was wet.

The bed, 30 degrees Celsius outside. My sweaty inner thights, as his hands slided on them.

I was light.

3 vodka tonics and a couple of colourful cocktails named exotically had been my lunch and dinner.

He was close, laying next to me. He was far, his eyes shut down.

I wish he had not noticed mine on him when suddenly awakening, proposing:

“Shall we walk down the beach?”

And that sounded like a necessity, I would have never replied something else but:

“Of course”

Proposing, proposal. Is that a wedding gazebo on the shore, surrounded by the rebellious ocean crushing on the rocks, the order of nature in the perfectly parallel waves folding under the moonlight reflection.

Could there be any more appropriate scenario than this?

But the wind was strong, enough to impede our thoughts from being expressed by vocals,

Damn wind!

Damn kisses!

Who said they can hold promises?

And it was so dark, my thoughts sucked deep down, I almost got blinded by the moon when he exclaimed:

“Look how bright it is!”

And I was confused, because I knew it was the sun to be bright and not the moon itself; because I believed I could not hear his voice among the wind, and I was afraid I had missed something else now.

So I paid a lot of attention when he declared again:

“Look how close it looks, you can totally see it is a rock!”

And I saw then the moon’s surface and I saw myself walking on it,

By myself,

With my thoughts only,

As they seemed to be anywhere else

But there.

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Fading

It was still cold.

Grey clouds hanging over a mouldy lawn and bare trees. Those big trees. They were tall, she found herself thinking while looking up to one of them. Her nose started watering. She could feel her two hands icing up, a bottled water and a can of coke from the vending machines. She would have waited inside. It was still cold.

Her friend had a dark skin, one of those soft skin that would have always smelled good. But how could she know? She knew he was good with the camera though. She liked the work of him she saw on the internet. Yet, he shot with a vintage camera, with film: she was impatient to touch her image on the flappy polished paper.

She placed the two beverages on the table. The toilette was cold, too. She dared to get close to the mirror. She did not do so that often; let’s say almost never. But that day she felt pretty; beautiful. The make up she had put on was not much, but expensive. Her eyelashes were so long.

It was not the first time she posed for that guy. He must have found some details in her that she could not appreciate, she thought when being asked for some photos for the third time. So now, on that day, she thought she was beautiful. And also that new yellow jumper looked good on her, even if yellow did not usually suit her complexion. Her legs did not look too skinny. That was a good day, despite the cold weather.

But they would have had to stay outside for some good 30 minutes: he usually wanted to finish two rolls of film. She would have had to cover her hands then: they got funny red spots when too cold.

The soap from the dispenser did not smell anything pleasant. The paper must have been recycled; she appreciated the idea of it but it scratched her nostrils when cleaning them. On her way out, a blonde young girl entered the bathroom, almost hitting her; they smiled at each other sympathetically. But when back in the hall and sat down next to the table, noticed the amount of sugars in the can she just opened, removed some fluffs from her coat, then she wished that hour she had to wait would have passed quickly, before noticing, becoming aware, of anything else that could have faded.