Jul 2015
The sounds of ******* haunt the hallways outside of the tacky, run down hostel where they both lay. She is lying on the edge of the bed.
The sheets are creased. There are cracks on the wall.
But for 3 euros a night, you can't complain.
She lies there, still; staring blankly at the ceiling. Her short robotic breaths are the only life seen.
He eagerly moves close to her, but for the life of him, cannot touch her. His unsure attempts at moving his arm over her are prevented by a sudden urge to break into tears.
Finally, his hand places itself over hers.
She is cold.
"Did anything change?" he says, afraid of the answer.
There is a pause. It might've been a few seconds or half an hour.
"No." Speaking so quietly, barely audible to him.
He is about to say something, but he catches the micro-expression that followed her reply.
A sigh.
He becomes impatient,
"Then kiss me." he blurts out, clumsily.
It sounded better in his head.
A deep exhale and an almost exaggerated look of contempt washes over her tired face. She puts her hand to her face, failing to cover up her outburst of honesty, pretending to clean out something from her spotless, green eyes.
She quickly moves her face closer to his, with her eyes closed, and she puckers her lips in such a way that suggests she'd rather be dead.
His eyes are open, and now he is the one who is lifeless.
"What?" She says, breaking the awkward seconds of silence.
Silent seconds are followed by silent minutes, and now they are sitting up on the head of the bed, watching the old, fat TV that hangs from the filthy wall. Something is playing but he can't understand the language.
'Pedifilios' 'solidade' is the only word that seems familiar.
She is smoking another cigarette.
'it sounds like soldier'
The faint sounds of her mouth blowing out the smoke, are telling him all he needs to know.
'maybe solitary.
She loves her ******* cigarettes, he thinks to himself.
She grabs the worn/well used out ashtray that sits on the side of the bed, and goes to put it out.
"Here, let me get that" he says, gentlemenly, and snatches her it out of her hand, then puts it out into the back of his other hand.
The pain doesn't make him feel any more alive.
" There you go," the cigarrettes crumbles into ashes over his hand and he pushes the ashes into the ash tray, then looks at her.
Her expression is a weird/curious mix of diisgust and fear.
Minutes turn back into seconds and the sound of her footsteps are the last thing he hears from her, just before the slamming of the door.
The sheets are creased. There are cracks on the wall.
But for 3 euros a night, you can't complain.
She lies there, still; staring blankly at the ceiling. Her short robotic breaths are the only life seen.
He eagerly moves close to her, but for the life of him, cannot touch her. His unsure attempts at moving his arm over her are prevented by a sudden urge to break into tears.
Finally, his hand places itself over hers.
She is cold.
"Did anything change?" he says, afraid of the answer.
There is a pause. It might've been a few seconds or half an hour.
"No." Speaking so quietly, barely audible to him.
He is about to say something, but he catches the micro-expression that followed her reply.
A sigh.
He becomes impatient,
"Then kiss me." he blurts out, clumsily.
It sounded better in his head.
A deep exhale and an almost exaggerated look of contempt washes over her tired face. She puts her hand to her face, failing to cover up her outburst of honesty, pretending to clean out something from her spotless, green eyes.
She quickly moves her face closer to his, with her eyes closed, and she puckers her lips in such a way that suggests she'd rather be dead.
His eyes are open, and now he is the one who is lifeless.
"What?" She says, breaking the awkward seconds of silence.
Silent seconds are followed by silent minutes, and now they are sitting up on the head of the bed, watching the old, fat TV that hangs from the filthy wall. Something is playing but he can't understand the language.
'Pedifilios' 'solidade' is the only word that seems familiar.
She is smoking another cigarette.
'it sounds like soldier'
The faint sounds of her mouth blowing out the smoke, are telling him all he needs to know.
'maybe solitary.
She loves her ******* cigarettes, he thinks to himself.
She grabs the worn/well used out ashtray that sits on the side of the bed, and goes to put it out.
"Here, let me get that" he says, gentlemenly, and snatches her it out of her hand, then puts it out into the back of his other hand.
The pain doesn't make him feel any more alive.
" There you go," the cigarrettes crumbles into ashes over his hand and he pushes the ashes into the ash tray, then looks at her.
Her expression is a weird/curious mix of diisgust and fear.
Minutes turn back into seconds and the sound of her footsteps are the last thing he hears from her, just before the slamming of the door.
