not told her the truth. the afternoon drew to a close, the sun went down fast over the horizon, dust the sky of a pale orange.
She was there, sitting a few steps away from me. The observed hours. The soft dark hair falling over her shoulders, the coat came out a long gray scarf, knotted tightly around his neck. Hands wore gloves thin leather. I could smell her perfume caressing the face to every gust of wind. She sat composed, in part, on a bench facing the pond. The swans fluttered in front of his eyes, disembodied sliding on the water surface. The wind ruffled their wake vortices in inhomogeneous and furtive.
I did not know her exact age, looked young and defenseless. Small. Eyes, from time to time, a tear fell. Perhaps the cold, perhaps because of me.
played with the threads of the scarf, interweaving of three, without looking. His fingers moved up on the lap, I could turn my head in my direction. I remained motionless.
was beautiful, the little girl of the plains.
was a woman, my little victim.
I would have seduced, hit, sinking my disgust in the meat would have made mine. Dirty, I would have cleaned up. A joke, the illusion of a better future, and would fall at my feet. I would have struggled to convince her, I would have begged him to make her his. A shot, then another and another. She, like the other one, one of many that I held in my arms.
shook his head, slowly, without stopping to weave the threads. He looked in my direction, he could not see me.
Two hours is an indefinite time, if your mind is wrapped in a thin layer of cotton wool.
I saw her dancing on the edge of water, wet ankles, down to the middle of the lake, sinking below the speed of his pirouettes. Disappeared, my imaginary dancer.
I went to her, sitting at his side. I took her in his arms and squeezed involuntarily, without knowing it. I kissed her forehead and took her away, far away. Away from me.
Barbara Greggio
picture, Two swans at sunset, Melbourne, the source told Reuters.
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