He. She.
He sits alone at the tram stop, shivering in the frigid winter night. He would rub his stiff hands, before tucking them under his thighs again. All this while, he waits.
He grabs her hand and pulls her into the splash fountain. They run through the jets of water, carefully skipping around the other people escaping the heat. They stop right in the center of the square. There, they stand, facing each other, her hands on his. She closes her eyes, feeling the cold water rain down on her face. And she breaks into a smile. A smile of bliss.
She stands at the side of the bridge, a solitary figure looking at the river.
She slams the door shut and locks it. She covers her ears as he knocks furiously on the glass window. She closes her eyes and turns away. The pounding stops. She turns. He says something. She looks at him, her eyes watery. He says it again, this time slower, emphasizing each syllable.
He runs. He knows he can’t stop. He runs and runs and runs. But even as he is running, she is slipping away.
Two persons sitting side by side on the train, listening to their own mp3s, not saying a word to each other, even though they are both listening to the same song.
She grabs his elbow as he starts to light the sparkler, and squeals when it comes to life, illuminating the darkness, illuminating their faces. He smiles; she looks so radiant.
He just stands there, at the center of the overheard bridge, shoulders slouched, staring off into space, as the crowds mill around below; an island.
He stretches out a gloved hand to catch the falling snowflake. He looks up at the night sky and wonders if she were somewhere watching as well.
She takes in a deep breath. Letting it out, she nods to convince herself. She picks up the sledgehammer and swings at the sculpture. The monument to their love.
She leans on his shoulder, her fingers tracing words in the sand, words that somehow lose their magic if spoken. He sits there, knees tucked in, arms around his knees. Staring, staring, staring…at the ship in the horizon that doesn’t exist.
He stares at the screen of his phone and flips it shut. He looks around, lost. Then he flips it open and stares at it again. He exhales sharply and presses the button.
He is on the floor, curled on his side, sleeping peacefully. She sits down carefully, silently. Taking out her canvas, she proceeds to sketch.
He grabs her hand and pulls her into the splash fountain. They run through the jets of water, carefully skipping around the other people escaping the heat. They stop right in the center of the square. There, they stand, facing each other, her hands on his. She closes her eyes, feeling the cold water rain down on her face. And she breaks into a smile. A smile of bliss.
She stands at the side of the bridge, a solitary figure looking at the river.
She slams the door shut and locks it. She covers her ears as he knocks furiously on the glass window. She closes her eyes and turns away. The pounding stops. She turns. He says something. She looks at him, her eyes watery. He says it again, this time slower, emphasizing each syllable.
He runs. He knows he can’t stop. He runs and runs and runs. But even as he is running, she is slipping away.
Two persons sitting side by side on the train, listening to their own mp3s, not saying a word to each other, even though they are both listening to the same song.
She grabs his elbow as he starts to light the sparkler, and squeals when it comes to life, illuminating the darkness, illuminating their faces. He smiles; she looks so radiant.
He just stands there, at the center of the overheard bridge, shoulders slouched, staring off into space, as the crowds mill around below; an island.
He stretches out a gloved hand to catch the falling snowflake. He looks up at the night sky and wonders if she were somewhere watching as well.
She takes in a deep breath. Letting it out, she nods to convince herself. She picks up the sledgehammer and swings at the sculpture. The monument to their love.
She leans on his shoulder, her fingers tracing words in the sand, words that somehow lose their magic if spoken. He sits there, knees tucked in, arms around his knees. Staring, staring, staring…at the ship in the horizon that doesn’t exist.
He stares at the screen of his phone and flips it shut. He looks around, lost. Then he flips it open and stares at it again. He exhales sharply and presses the button.
He is on the floor, curled on his side, sleeping peacefully. She sits down carefully, silently. Taking out her canvas, she proceeds to sketch.
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