I lurked in the shadows of those streets the entire night: solitaries, madmen, prostitutes, somnambulists. After a while I couldn’t distinguish among them.
My steps were meaningless. My senses were tranquilized by that vision of him scribbling his last letter to me under a pale winter moon. The child was probably happy, playing at his feet. It wasn’t his child, but…
The beat of the streets became one with the unstoppable movements of his heart in my own chest. He left his love to me like some kind of inheritance.
Why retreat alone with the child on a remote island?
Afterall the city did not do more than compromise the least part of him: his ego.
Blood is dateless. The ego is not. Which part did he not understand?
Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers
@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)
image: Dmytro Vietrov; Shutterstock; [link]