Cotton candy aftermaths.
Slippery notes of 10.
The prickle of stranger on a bus.
Inevitability between man and woman.
Static of silk and belly.
The vase that got away.
Etchings of brassiere straps.
Calluses for absent play.
11AM sun of winter mornings.
Bites of new E-string.
The lure of knife’s edge.
Wetness inside a ring.
Found an interesting theme on this blog that compiles 55-word stories, called “Touch”. This is what came of it.
The urchin flashed his 5, and called, Pani Puri!
The hawker eyed him stand with the women who self-consciously popped whole puris in.
Five down. They wiped their mouths. Pink hankies. Filthy sleeve.
The urchin hovered.
The hawker looked, tsked, and threw the coin back at him.
Who has use for two tails?
Why don’t you leave it with me? He offered.
Big eyes darting, she gave it to him, and clambered into the giant wheel.
The wheel swung and plunged. Nauseated, he looked away.
He ringed nothing at the ring-anything stall.
Eating her cotton candy, he asked, Did you like it?
No. My heart wasn’t in it.
Perfect summer’s evening.
I’m in my cotton dress. You’re suited.
There’s breeze. There’s silence.
I walk the wall, flip-flops in hand.
You, dear gentleman, put out your cigarette in abject worry.
I stop. I look at you.
You proffer your hand, promise with a nod.
Mister Death, I remember your eyes most.
He held my hand with conviction, thirty hours into knowing I existed,
Pointing out stars shining on wet, wet sand.
One chin tilting forty five degrees upward, Z Axis.
The other, forty five down.
Snug in the depth of his voice, through his chest.
Giggling, tickled by bubbles bursting between our toes.
Ankle-deep in love.
We sat on the cool stone steps, waiting. It looked like rain.
Actually, it was too dark to tell.
This was his third successive night up.
A flicker briefly yellowed his features. Then, a unit of orange waxed and waned as he fancied.
You’re right, he said.
I’ve fallen out of the habit of love.
I watched him walk from the cigarette shop, talking on the phone – to someone close, I imagine. His gait wasn’t particularly hurried.
He’d respectfully kept his cigarette unlit.
I was telling somebody close about the daal-fry I’d had for lunch.
I waved at him.
He smiled, waved back.
I have no clue who he was.
There are French windows at work, overlooking a very busy road.
Day in-day out, people commute along our lines of sight, rarely straying into our visions.
During torrential downpours, they huddle at the unofficial smokers’ lounge.
Today, a morgue van passed.
there are French windows along a very busy road, overlooking an office.