I write novels, he said. I write short-stories, said she. Well, that is also fine, replied he, a patronizing clumsy tall pale male standing in front of her, giving the impression of embodying a degree of hope for success in the business of inspiring some attraction and interest with his unfortunate display of efforts. She looked away with her eyes narrowed and a closed grin, are you for real, was the thought making her mind laugh. Apparently, he was. He proceeded by seriously suggesting going for a walk some day and went away with his clumsy ways. She looked at the sea, at the waves, the geese, the seagulls, the Jacob’s staircase, and allowed herself to be fascinated by nature’s beauty and nurturing balance. The take and give, the here and now, the then and there. Her feet dipped in the sand, her toes getting wet. Her back on the ground, she faces the sun with her arms stretched out and the palms of both hands down, her fingers exploring the newly born morning dew moisture, playing to get lost in the crispy green grass in this fine and random Sunday blast with a tall pale stranger and his clumsy ways delivered with a tender look in his sweet pale blue eyes.
You’ll meet a tall pale stranger. Short story from 12 o’clock-tales and after hours thoughts. The book.