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He smokes something that looks like a cigar but he calls it cigarette. And she doesn’t argue. Life is too short. Her grandfather used to do the same and she is scared to go all the way to the place where Froid does the slip. Then she looks at her phone. Time is relevant. She looks at his phone – she sees herself. She can barely remember if it ever happened before. Who cares? Wine. That’s the important part. White. That’s the colour she can’t understand. Unless it’s a shirt shes wearing for the morning after while going to the bathroom. And it’s been so long for it to happen, it feels like wearing a Halloween costume borrowed from non-existent relative.
He looks like a gypsy reincarnation in the real life boy. He dances and wears a hat. He smokes those things and kisses her with passion. They both forget where they are sometimes. Or what time it is. And it’s beautiful. And it makes more sense than kissing anyone else.
He wakes up that French decadence she has in her blood and they both drown in it. Only lovers left alive.  And it makes sense. Feelings and emotions that create lust but also makes so much sense you need a map to float away. Truth that scares you every moment you step away from it, it looks like it is going to be evaporating with the last living memory because those memories are so real. You don’t engrave them. You just keep them. The way you keep burning cigarette, or an open bottle of wine. And it all makes sense.
The first time he holds her hand in public she remembers what it feels to kind of belong to a man and the peace it brings to her. She remembers that old-fashioned fear to be owned. And she loves it.
2015-07-26 23:54
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