He stood in front of her. That look, that look... he was trying to explain, why should he?
"It's my life, mine! You hear?" Recklessly forgetting the eager blade.
Her perspiration formed silver droplets that reflected and fell, reflected and fell. The lines of the chequer board blurring.
A dimple remained where her heel had ground, a form of surrender. Giving up gently the downed abdomen. She had never tasted his navel, his nipples. Her lips had never been grazed.
An elegant, artificial eyelash detached itself slightly. Skewing the lines.
Bleeding on the white, a torn lacquered nail lingered. It was over. Damask, musky rose swirled in the corners, still.
No one would find her, or the car at that hour: too early. She ripped off the other eyelash, one blinding accident was enough. His navel had distracted her thoughts. A stolen glance, carefully sealed in her memory, like an ancestral cameo. To be removed from its mouldy black velvet bag on wet days, on Sundays at dusk, fondled, never to be worn.
Despair crumpled under the elaborate skirt. At times it is necessary to allow the appearance of distress, to drop reserve, to entice help.
Trees has hidden in the morning mist, embarrassed by their part in the incident, guilty elephants, moving in the shadows, avoiding contact.
Toreador red stained the butt of the cigarette. It had brought no comfort, false light, false hope, false warmth. It was over.
"What were you doing in the kitchen for so long?"He did not notice the broken nail under his bare foot. Focused attention, a lover's haze. Their lips embraced. He almost lost his balance. It did not matter, this could be substantial, he wanted to be with this moment only.
A broken, artificial finger nail, painted red, was found upstairs in the bed. He had walked the memory with him.
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