The sea brought small treasures back to the shore that The Girl scours every day. She finds little things buried in the wet sand, she fills her pockets with them and walks back home. She lays the little treasures around the house.
She wanders around, from one room to the other ; one is dark and cold. The AC works but the light doesn’t when she flicks the switch. The sun that hits the electric blinds hardly penetrates the room, the light dances on the walls, predictable yet never the same. The Girl likes the corridor, it is narrow and she likes the sound of her heels on the hardwood floor. Between two doors, a painting, too small, loosely framed ; waves are distinguishable, and in the horizon the glow of the birth of a sun, or its death. Whatever.
When the night comes she roams around the city in her Chevrolet, the cream leather seats are warm and she gets dizzy in the winding roads. She stops and looks over the valley slowly lighting up in the dusk, —a silent watcher.
I am one of those that are invisible, with a window down maybe, part of this undefined symphony of cars that come and go. Teenagers roll-by, fast, loud, —and we all look at the same sky, the same planes landing and taking-off, the same lights blinking on the tops of downtown, the same corridors of taillights, the same trees that block the view. We sit and fantasize a thousand lives, in the blaring sweetness of the night that’s come.
She sighs and goes home. She will come back the next day, and the next one.
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