She was the girl with flowers in her hair not to be found in California but in a small bar at the road’s end, seated alone by the table at the far in corner of the room, the one close to the mirror on the wall framed robustly gold. With her gaze she would catch her eyes, there, there she was. Into her eyes she meets the little girl, the one that likes to play. She smiles. Once she finds herself in there, she listens, hears stories. Many recurrent and many she had almost completely forgotten. She smiles, bites her lower lip ‘oh, dear, what have I not done!?’ She laughs at her groupie, gipsy, diva heart. By the time the bartender arrives, silver tray in hand, she’s back from memory lane with satisfaction written all over her face. Takes the glass, cheers to the graceful deliverer and through the first sip feels all the flavours swimming into her mouth. Eyes closed now, she listens, hears stories. Many recurrent and many she had almost completely forgotten.

The girl with flowers in her hair. Short-story from “12 o’clock-tales” (The red table & A scared black cat, book adventure)