These days i’m feeling a little odd.. a tad bit of everything…

Why dont you suggest me one title for this one?

* * *

She has always wondered at his ability to travel, to change places, to switch between time zones. One day He’s here, and on the other he’s already across the ocean. His day has a double share of hours, and His life has a double measure.

She has also wondered where his things go, the things he leave behind each time he’s on the move again. She look around the room - it’s already bare, stripped of all his possessions. All old trifles uprooted, and all his traces eradicated.

Only the cinders in the fireplace are still alive, like a heart of this abandoned house.

“Will you come back?”

“Don’t know. I need some time to live there - to live away from *here*. Some change. A new path, maybe.”

“I hope you know where you’re walking.”

He shrug, sit down on the windowsill and gesture to her to approach. The wide window is open into a warm summer evening. The apartment is on the third floor. A white tulle curtain - perhaps he didn’t like it enough to pack - wavers in the breeze.

She stands beside him and watch the street below. Under the crowns of the trees, dusted green after the long heat, people are passing by - some trotting busily, some strolling, singles, couples, companies. They are too far below to hear what they say, but they are loud enough to make a presence.

She gaze down while his hands tug at her clothes, and when they touch, and when the silken tulle rubs against her bare shoulder. It’s making her slightly uncomfortable that they’re doing it here, on the windowsill, with his back leaning against the frame, but then her attention is diverted.

“What are you looking at?” He sit with his back to the window and can’t see what’s happening down in the street, but he can see the curious expression of her face.

“It’s a man. Must be a puppet-maker or something like that. Very old-fashioned.” She speak, all the while moving as she should, and he groan into her shoulder. “He was carrying a box, then he stumbled and the box fell down. You know what’s inside?”

He doesn’t, and She doesn’t think he care right now.

“Parts of puppets’ bodies. Right now he’s picking those artificial eyes from the pavement.”

She can see the man clearly because the street lanterns are already turned on. This makes her realize that they, too, are perfectly visible, in all their private indecency. She would tell him about that, but his hand softly brushes her sweat-covered back.

“Don’t worry. They never look up.”

* * *