She washes her hands. The soap smells like the Indian grocery store and other places she’s never been. The water is too cold, but she lets it run over her wrists for a few more seconds than necessary as she scrutinizes the shape of her chin in the mirror.
He opens the door. The air is heavy with steaming cedar planks and re-condensing water vapour. The sweat begins to bead on his forehead, on his upper lip, behind his knees. He closes his eyes and sinks into the sensation of sodden hair settling against the back of his neck.
They wave hello and smile. Pleasantries skip through their teeth in animated flashes of unasked questions. The curiosity between them snaps like pea pods under impatient fingernails, but the facade never falters. They are careful not to move into accidental intimacy, and their feet plant against minute signals of discomfort.
She trips on the uneven sidewalk. Blood oozes around tiny rocks embedded in her knees and palms. The high-pitched wail never comes, but the rest of them run to escape anyway. She squats in the fresh-cut grass and inspects the severed and dying skin for a moment before a ladybug lands next to the scrape and distracts her.
We hold hands across the table. The conversation is intense, and perhaps the woman two tables over believes we are lovers. I sip lemonade through a straw as the cadence of your words wafts around us like glacial breezes in a heat wave.
Brilliant. Strange and real.
Strange and real is mostly what I go for. :)
They reinforce each other, I find.