So, here is the first short-short of the short-shorts book I might write someday... Enjoy.
A mist came over my eyes
A mist came over my eyes as I went past the twenty-eighth floor in time to catch a glimpse of the naked woman who picked up the shower head, turned the water faucet on, and aimed the steady flow of steam and silky streaks of argentine water towards her breasts. Then, at a leisurely pace, she pushed the jet against her long neck and all the way around it towards her nape, goosebumps rising throughout her skin as the water rose ceremonially, soaking the short pixie hair-cut she got recently, together with her divorce and a new lover. More a self re-fashioning than a fashion statement. The hair-cut, that was. Even if the pizzazz of that first fling had worked miracles on her skin tone, truth be told, she missed her husband: his reliability, his calm analytic take on life.
A few days ago, a mutual friend had dropped a remark. Words like “desolate”, or even “haggard”, were used. She didn’t give it much thought. Perhaps she should call him after all, she said to herself, brushing her face under the steaming water, reaching out for the shampoo bottle with her eyes still closed and missing it by inches, toppling it with the back of her hand so it slipped out of the metal rack with a muffled thump.
She picked up the bottle and squirted a splurge of crimson goo on her left hand, cupped as if to pick up rain, or a pocket-sized man, thinking: I should ask him to drop by sometime.
A few days ago, a mutual friend had dropped a remark. Words like “desolate”, or even “haggard”, were used. She didn’t give it much thought. Perhaps she should call him after all, she said to herself, brushing her face under the steaming water, reaching out for the shampoo bottle with her eyes still closed and missing it by inches, toppling it with the back of her hand so it slipped out of the metal rack with a muffled thump.
She picked up the bottle and squirted a splurge of crimson goo on her left hand, cupped as if to pick up rain, or a pocket-sized man, thinking: I should ask him to drop by sometime.
Cuaderno Americano by Marcos Neroy is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
