sexta-feira, 2 de agosto de 2013


She wakes up to a flash of light. The rays touch down on two used up glow sticks next to her bed, slightly illuminating them. The previous night washes over her: the hustle of the street party, shoes kicking up dust, vendors twirling bracelets in the air. She didn’t expect to see him in the middle of the crowd, but here he is, lying beside her. It is still early in the morning and the street is quiet.

“You’re awake,” he groans, rolling over and grabbing her by the waist. She turns around and looks at him like a stranger.

“You need to go,” she says evenly.

He sits up on the bed caressing his chest in a solitary gesture. She observes the rhythm of his fingers as he takes in the room; his eyes flicker from the mauve sheets, to the picture now catching the light on the nightstand.

“Do you still love him?” He asks.

She hesitates, focused on the glow sticks appearing to move ever so slightly beneath the faded picture. Her gaze moves to the floorboards pounding with music from below.

“My neighbours,” she justifies getting up from the bed.

“When the fireworks exploded last night, you said you missed me,” he comments, as she turns towards the door.

“And that you loved me,” he adds feeling her silence.

by Desiree Jung

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