To Camille, there were two types of people: those who sat slovenly on the sunny side of the bench and those who squeezed under the shade of the tree.
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.
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.
They were sitting next to each other and both staring the screen of her phone: and now that he got closer to her, he noticed clumps of a yellowish glue at the base of her eyelashes.
Not satisfied of what she had seen, still she closed the mirror door and left the bedroom.