“do you see the little man dancing?”
summer. street corner, one of ‘his spots’ -- a paradise hidden -- for her.
she doesn’t remember the cafe’s name. she has always been bad at names. for her the world exists as a smooth geometric cosmos in lines and shapes, words are supplementary. especially when being with him in his city --‘i can’t gather my thoughts right now cuz the whale is sitting in front of me (with a little heart in the end)’-- one year later she discovered herself in the pieces of writing fragments documenting the time when she’s with him, alone but complete, this is what she found: random shapes, lines, drawings, hearts, blanks, and ‘awwwwwwwwwwww...’ with the uncountable ‘w’s, (the letter ‘w’, as his signature, the beginning of his imaginary existence) -- how she has became one of those little mollusks shining at nights when being with him, he the ‘w’, sweet sweet magic potion, a transformation.
she was simply too happy to write anything down. she thought she could remember. “just to remember everything,” she told herself, “how pale these words are, how meaningless, but the sound, the smell, the heartbeats, the affections.”
so now she closes her eyes. she hears the sea, from far away, but near.
she could smell it. the scent. the smell she’s so familiar with. his smell, intertwined with the gentle breeze blowing from the mediterranean.
so ancient, so secular, even ‘lovely’, they would say.
“how lovely.”
window seat, as always. the sun is dry. hot. infatuating.
she sees little sweat drops land on his neck, still. she wonders whether the whale would purr, then the ocean purrs too.
iced coffee black, as always.
he’s sitting opposite from her.
small rounded table, with arabic geometry patterns in brown and caramel.
his fingers tap on the table, await.
she takes a sip of coffee, then raises her gaze, searching for his delicate attention.
crescent eyes, smiling, tired from the heat and sickness, ready to fall into a winding sleep. he leans to her, points through the window,
“Do you see the little man dancing?”
he asks.
a delayed glance,
“do you see the little man dancing?” she giggles.
“it’s in motion” he says.
she follows his gaze.
she sees the sky and sunlight streaming through the leaves forming into fragmented shadows, as the vastness of an illegible poem unfurls across the dry, hot, sleepy seaside air.
she becomes a long stare; he, the facula inside of her.