DRABBLE: SUMMER, TIME.

Um momento de inspiração ao ver uma fotografia. Deixei-me levar pela minha imaginação e desafiei-me apenas a escrever uma pequena drabble de uma possível short story. Penso que gostaria de fazer uma coleção de pequenas drabbles feitas em momentos de inspiração, olhando para uma fotografia, ouvindo uma música, ou mesmo para descrever algo em meu redor através da minha imaginação.

Fotografia de inspiração: Costa Brava, Espanha.

Tema: Tempo.

Palavras: 781

It was summer. The beach was calm and so was the breeze that carefully found itself inside houses that lived nearby. The little village that was located by the beach was soundless. Anyone who’d come from a big city would probably find that peace frightening. It was twenty minutes past lunch time and, everyone was taking a nap. Whoever wasn’t, was either reading a book or writing their own. It was that kind of village. It would be a lie to say that all I’m talking about is the ones that live in the village, because the foreigners, the foreigners enjoy going for coffee after lunch or take a walk by the beach. Michela is one of them.

Michela decided to come to the village after her divorce, the stupid bastard had ruined New York to her, her favourite destiny for when the blues were hitting her chest. So now she was exploring and the picture she had seen on the internet was far too intriguing. She wanted to know the village and to get herself out of the big crowds where no one knows each other, and no one absolutely cares. She was there for two days and she could already sense the difference. Aside from the break time that every worker had after lunch, everyone knew each other. Everyone cared, and everyone was kind enough compared to what she was used to it. She thought ‘Maybe I should have found a husband here’ every time she would get more than two glasses of their wine. Then she would fill her third glass and pick a cigarette between her lips. She didn’t smoke back home, but she wasn’t single back home either before. She took the glass between her lips and the cigarette after. It was hot, why wasn’t she napping like everyone?

Most houses were close at that hour, so she had to stay in the Hotel to drink. It was only her, the waitress and a man that was drinking all by himself. She thought that like her, he had to be a foreigner too. He had no book on his table but a phone and a closed laptop, although he was using none and simply staring at the ocean that was just under the hotel where both were staying.

‘Maybe I would say something.’ She thought to herself. She was single for a day now; her lawyer had called her to inform that the bastard had finally signed the damn papers. Would it be wrong to say hello? She could try to have one of those hot nights her mom had told her to have while being here.

“You are still young my daughter, meet strangers and have fun!” She said with a happy voice when she had heard Michela was going to spend two to three weeks in the small village of Spain, instead of Madrid or Barcelona. She knew that in the first two cities she would get herself so lost in the museums and bars, she would forget time and soon she’d be back home, with all the paper work she had to do. The thought of it almost ruined the drink she was having. Time was going by slow and she spend her days drinking and eating. Nothing was wrong with that. Nothing was as good as that. She finished her glass and put the cigarette down before walking to the table. The waitressed smiled. “Foreigners.”

“Can I have a sit?” She asked. The man kept looking at the ocean before nodding. “Do you speak English?” She asked again and unlike him, she kept her eyes on his figure.

“Mother tongue.” He said.

“Me too.” She said and took another sip from her drink. Soon she would finish the bottle of wine she had asked, soon she would stop caring about her appearance and how the freckles on top of her cheeks made her look older than she was. Maybe not only the freckles but also the fact she had married at the age of twenty-three. Marriage that had only lasted two years. She was at her blooming age but all she felt was that she was old. Time had skipped too quickly for her to even dare to go back and realise the number of things had happened between her youth and where she is now.

“I’m from Ireland.”

“I knew you were from United Kingdom by your accent. Also, lovely red hair you have.” He finally looked at her, what a wonderful smile.

“You’re American, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Writing. You?”

‘Getting divorce hangover.’

“I’m just on vacations. What are you writing about?”

“Time.”