Slow Movements, Methodical Manifestations

The rain drips down the windows; the clouds above his head glow the most riveting gray. He looks upon the city, to his right, as it passes slowly. The train drives forward like a quiet torrent, rumbling underneath his feet, taking him to a physical destination while his mind wanders, as a flaneur would. There are so many faces in the car with him, with various illnesses, delusions and disappointments. Their collective vision spans the entirety of the train car, each square inch covered by someone’s perspective. He looks past all of their flapping mouths and colored bodies and dreams with his eyes open.


He sees her; he can nearly feel her actually. Her tiny microscopic hairs on her skin brush up against his, gently, as she rests next to him. She is turned, still sleeping, with her naked back towards him; he gazes upon the delicacy of her body. She is fragile like a fine Christmas ornament, incandescent. He thinks to himself; she, lying curled up next to him, safe and warm within the confines of his body is truly lovelier than the loveliest. He admires her hair as it glistens on her shoulders with the light shining playfully on her head. He examines her back, in its utter perfection, like a map which details immortality.

Taking his hand, he grazes his finger gently along her neck, running them down the center of her spine and to the small of her back, stopping and resting his full hand on her hip. He struggles to believe her tangibility or this moment. The girl cannot be real, she must be an illusion, maybe a premonition but certainly not real. He nears his face towards hers, and places his lips on the top of her head. He kisses her soft hair kindly, with the utmost appreciation for her presence.

The sound of the early morning rain outside is staccato and calming. It reminds him of when he was young and she of being content, settled. Her company is cocaine. However, he feels wonderfully sedated at present. The wind hums amongst them as it makes its entrance through the window besides the bed. She shivers a little and he can see goose bumps surface on her shoulders. As he lifts the sheet to cover the girl, her scent, her lovely scent, bursts through the room like a flood. He breathes it in deeply, it is truly intoxicating.

He stands and walks to the near corner of the room next to the window. In that corner is an old, bedraggled chair. He uses it for contemplative purposes when in such moods. So he seats himself and flips open his pack of Parliament cigarettes. Only one remains. He smiles at his good fortune. As he lights his cigarette, outside, the sound of flowers growing onto tree branches can be heard and the flapping of butterfly wings also.

He glances briefly through the window and acknowledges the brilliance of the humble morning. However, he returns his attention quickly to the wonder in his bed. He is unable to focus on anything but her splendor, she is magnetic. He sits, watching her rest, peaceful in her lucid dreams. She has the most moving eyes which are hidden beneath her sleep and he yearns to see them in her wake. Yet he is silent like a church mouse, unwilling to rouse her.

He had truly begun to lose hope. There was not supposed to be someone with the ability to inject this level of electricity in his life. Life is supposed to be despondent and women fundamentally superfluous. People are supposed to be inherently backwards and terribly expendable. Foremost, love is a brutal cockfight, impulsive and carnal.

There is no place for this morning in his paradigm. She is a fatal fracture, an emphatic rebuttal to his personal dogmas. He sees her in his own eyes as his train winds through the city like a serpent. The sky pours rain on our heads.