Originally posted on Escapism – for the girl I'll never be, for the girl I almost am:
There is a nice apartment over the bakery. It is inviting, relaxing, with an air of sophistication and maturity. It is where he first opened the door for her, and where she touched his face with new love on her fingers and let warmth spread throughout her body.
The whiteness of the kitchen’s walls holds a painting of a dark blue river running wild over black rocks. She thinks of it as her stop-start anxiety, and she smiles. She knows there is a fist-sized hole behind. She think of it as him.
One night, when it was raining lightly outside, she leaned out of the window to wave him goodbye when a hot wind whipped across her arms. It was still summer. He was the kind of man who made her think. He made her think that she was happy. Thinking about it now feels to her like looking over a fence to someone else’s summer.
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