THE STILLNESS
There was a stillness full of noise.
The sound of insects mating, of water flowing, the silent vibrations of boulders and rocks. Birds sang across the two sides of the river. Sunshine filtered through leaves and dappled the surface of the water and littered the rest with shadows. Fish caught lazy dragonflies and gnats drifting foolishly through the thick, moist air.
A fishing pole lay across the ground, unbaited. The telescoping travel device resembled a lonely spine, bent and forgotten to the ages.
With a splash, the water rippled and sputtered, disturbed by the form of a human body, naked, drifting afloat, face to the sky; blue and clear, sun unforgiving but mostly at bay. Technically still clothed in sunglasses and sunscreen, breasts bobbed lopsidedly, and a pale pink tummy soon followed. Some toes poked out as well.
The sound of slowly rushing water was the only thing they could hear now. Careful to avoid water in the mouth and eyes, they flipped and paddled forward, mindful not to startle the fish too much. Deep breaths accompanied bobbing up and down in the deeper water. Coming out was invigorating. A thrill ran over them, and tiny, delicate hands reached for a soft, folded towel sitting nearby.
Wrapping and snaking it around their body, the shivering finally stopped.
COOL AS A CUCUMBER
The lady was cool.
When I say she was cool, I mean like a classic. Utterly timeless. Audrey Hepburn smoking a cigarette. Oversized hats and Jackie Kennedy.
And you could tell that she’d been through some shit. Like, you could see it in her eyes. You could see the ultimate tiredness that came with being cool, that weariness of the world that was almost enough to break a person, but not quite. Another day came, and with it another cigarette.
She stamped it out on the sidewalk, then made a face and carefully picked it up and placed it in the cigarette bin next to her. It was painted brightly and shaped like a happy face, ready to devour any nicotine it encountered. She wasn’t sure why the corner shop she was smoking outside of would have chosen such a thing to represent them.
“Maybe it was on sale,” she said aloud, just in time for a passerby to notice her and make a disapproving and disturbed face.
“Sorry, guess you must never talk to yourself, huh, ya normie?” she muttered as she lit another cigarette.
She honestly kind of hated this part of town. Everything was so clean. Not that she was overly messy or anything; she just found that life wasn’t pristine like most places that try to convey that image. Everything isn’t peaches and cream out there. Sometimes things are ugly and gross and horrible, and it’s CSI in real life.
But nobody wants to talk about that. Nobody like that passerby.
The lady sighed, quietly puffing the paper and tobacco, watching the ashes drag backward toward her face. Her ex said she held cigarettes like a French person, pinching the end with thumb and first finger and holding straight against her mouth. In truth, it was easy to get burned any other way, at least in her opinion. Maybe the French just knew what they were doing– so many of them smoked, didn’t they? All those outdoor cafes full of smokers.
Did the French legalize weed yet? She thought to herself. She thought that perhaps it would be good for them to consider it eventually, and then at least the Mary Jane fans could get in on the outdoor cafe smoking action.
She was beginning to think she had a smoking fetish.
Perhaps it isn’t good to think this much about smoking, she thought briefly, then shook her head.
Everyone has their vices, she reckoned quietly.