Traces of a Story

Fireflies bobbing up and down a dark field. 

A white stable lit with yellow lights at night.

The car keeps driving and driving down a barren landscape until they stop at the edge of the highway to [blank].

Bob is a man that is related to her family history.

She looks at me from the other side of the table while I devour my scrambled eggs with bacon stripes. 

Text. “We shouldn’t see each other. I am feeling things towards you”. I let the phone slip back into my pocket.


Hot outside, damp summer day. Sip, chat, sip. The music is very loud, and we can barely hear each other.

The yellow dress rolled up and we ended on the floor.

Silence again.

The beers showed up dripping spume over the bar. A drunken kiss tied and untied our lips by the subway’s entrance.

A southern house filled with potted plants and belonging to an old woman. The light filters through the windows and casts long shadows down the long corridors.

“Sup” I text. My friend pushes me towards the bar at the club where we are spending the night. The blue chat bubble lingers there for a second, unsent and undelivered until the network unclogs, and the message displays a “delivered” subtitle. She doesn’t reply until the next day.

I look at her sitting at the other side of the table as she eats her scallops. Red lipstick, a self-aware smile and careful movements of the fork and knife, barely leaving any metallic sound when touching her plate.

Kisses that have blossomed from a forgotten place, long, circular, and vulnerable. She says something “you are kissing me like …” without finishing the phrase. 

I knock on her window. Startled she opens the door. “I forgot my backpack”. I pick it up from her bedroom floor, kiss her goodbye and leave. The morning blows its cold wind on my face, waking me up.

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