· curiosity · reverence · desire ·
To that young couple by the dancefloor heat, where waves of frosted smoke went pirouetting through the open doors of the terrace where we’d never again meet. She. Slender and dark haired, her r’s rolling in from the wintry east, inhales from the flakes that curl to the beat on her cigarette’s tip the red that fills her puckered lips. He. An English boy so blond you didn’t believe he could belong who, leading with his sweeping hammerlocks, pulled me bare in ways that I myself had not the courage as he taught me for the very first time how to tie my hair into a waltz. “Keep it,” he said, then sat back down by her side on that neon-green night, the two of them standing out like sole colors in a neo-noir flick. That’s when she announced they were in love. She didn’t look at him when she said this, which meant it was no joke. Just a flick of her ash that broke the dance and then began anew, and off they went, the sun and moon, to bodyroll unto oblivion. Well to this day I tie my hair in the same way because I know no other and I still lack the courage, though sometimes I go out again on that terrace, not to smoke but to hope that She might look at me again with that same fire, and that He might pull me back into the flames.
To that young couple by Thomas Baruzzi is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.