travel-pass

Packed my bags. Went to comfort C in another part of this world.. 


C has her own apartment. A deal made with her mother, some sort of growing up strategy - still she is living in the building next to her. The apartment is filled with mirrors in big, ancient golden frames. Ironic since C hates the image of herself. I walk through the spacious corridor that is the centre of her home. Enter the living room area. Everywhere I turn I can see notes up on the walls. C follows my eyes. Therapy thing, she mumbles. 


I traded one balcony for another. One love for another. We sit together, smoking. Not talking. No need of words. She holds her teacup with both hands, they have the same color as eggshells. Her hands that is. I observe. Her body trembles. But her hands are still. Her bruised collarbones, fragile smile expose her, she is not well. Yet, she is better than the last time I saw her. That makes me glad. 


We spend the morning on that balcony. Sharing cigarettes, a tea pot. In her company there is always too much smoking, never enough eating. It feels relieving though. A man is staring at us from his window across. C waves and gives him of one her juvenile smiles. It's the time, of the season, for loving..