DAYDREAM

Blue jeans, burgundy top, and determination as a seasonal complement: the outfit of choice for the event of the night. Why she wanted to go and attend this musical affair was not clear yet. The performer, someone she had met, a piece of a story from which a delicate touch of confusion still remained. I have just come to dance, she hoped she could say. Artists with their delicious messes, cannot live with it, or without them. Before arrival, so many thoughts coagulating in her head—Will I find a discreet corner? Could I sit there quietly, have my drink, listen to the beat, and smoothly leave? For only this once, she wished she could disguise herself, be a tall, beautifully ginger Tilda, speak with another accent, be androgynously and mysteriously magic, have the impersonating talent and leave the scene without being seen. And once back—on her bicycle, the boat, her flat—muse on the night and daydream the way one does when they’ve fallen asleep amid the flowers, for a couple of hours on a beautiful day.