It's spreading
The apartment is very clean. Not much color. Big glass doors that slide
in front of one another to open at the back. Doesn't matter how blah
everything is inside because outside of those doors is a pool that
shimmers like a handful of precious tourmaline in the changing light
from early dawn until past sunset.
The sides of the pool are like rough white sand, a newly cleaned
floor, a delicate egg shell or the shockingly bright white of a house on
a cliff in Greece. Anything that reminds her of Greece is good. She is better in that olive-rich climate of hot bright and two
thousand blues. Sky. Sea. Windows. Flowers. His eyes.
Languid. Liquid. Luminescent.
They bumped into each other at
a tourist stop. One of the million little stores carrying Flokati rugs,
postcards, the two headed labyris and shot glasses. She was looking at
the bottom of one such glass up close, having forgotten about the
glasses hanging around her neck. He was, apparently, focused on a
postcard scene from Santorini.
Startled, she gasped gently and he grunted (a perfect metaphor for
what would come), and they turned to see who was on the other end of the
annoyance. That's when she remembered her glasses. She reached down to
her chest without looking to find the chain and pull them onto her nose,
and he stood there, proverbially frozen.
Later luscious lips locked.
But that was a long time ago and
now she stands on the other side of the glass, looking at the clean,
clear ripples on the artificial ocean outside her apartment feeling
totally alone.
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