RASPBERRY LANE

One, two, three, her rhythms, her routines. She has her habits, her divisions in the fridge, her daily little techniques. Not too fancy to her view, all is quite low key; her coffee, instant powder, to the horror of the ones that happen to pass by. By her room, by her life. The excitement of this life is subtle sometimes. It takes a while to understand and realise about the changes inflicted by time. Swinging her hips and her head, she still follows the beats of today’s Dj’s pace. The alcohol free bottle of beer in her hand is the new pleasurable thing, a kind substitute to the drinks she had held in the past, and those other vices she had, like the cigarettes her body so randomly refused to enjoy. She still, every now and then, remembers how she had to adapt to no more smoke signs nor enchanting orange lighted butts drawing figures in the dark whilst she danced. Today, her free hand is up in the air worshiping the spotlights and the goddess of sound waves and dance floor sensual affairs. It has been a while indeed, but, to her delight she’s still got it, somehow, even though her participation in the game has changed, social norms differ; she astonishes herself by feeling slightly shy and self-conscious, maybe with the next song she can shake off this uncomfortable emotion. Suddenly, she understands, she has been playing alone for long, has lost habit to partners, audience and friends. Mango orange toenails are the only element of decoration she cares to make the effort to exhibit and wear these days. Her former ordinary has become quite extraordinary, naturally, and as proof of her sentient character, she still likes to play. Little she knows now, by tomorrow at this hour, she will still be amazed, on how the highlight of the day would be the second of a thought in which her mind will embrace the idea of a warm cup in her hands, cocoa perhaps, dipping leftover homemade cake, while walking back home, after a beach spent day, through an organically grown raspberry lane.

Raspberry lane. Short-story from 12 o’clock-tales and after hours thoughts. The book.

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