23.11.12

Anticipation, trepidation, dread (fiction)


They'll be glad to meet with her, only if to nurse that little bit of themselves that refuses to let go of home, no matter how far away it may seem when the cold bites and the snow threatens to fall. For telling her that what's new becomes old and the past becomes pictures on Facebook and blurred calls on Skype would be telling her what they don't wish accept.

Why else would you meet only to talk about weather, beer and the all
the seemingly trivial things that you gave up to come here?

In class the others ask "Coffee after, or perhaps even a beer?" Young like her, smart like her, dressed like her - but she'll shake her head and hope for those like her.

"What about Corona - you'll love it? The beer is cheap as are the sandwiches," they try.

She'll go home and wait though she hasn't noticed that she doesn't play far off radio anymore.

Instead she'll tune into music and sounds that though meaningless, grow familiar, transfigure into words and maybe one day she might understand.

In the meantime she'll paint her nails purple, orange or even blue and hope that someone remarks, “What a lovely colour!"

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