papershots june 2015

Many years later, as an apology for what he had come to consider unacceptable, downright rude behavior, Jack sent a bunch of flowers to the only address his meticulous research produced. A foreign country. It had happened one summer evening, the drunken climax of a virtuous day of sightseeing, learning the magic tricks of past epochs, inebriatingly near and far from everything around. So that at the bus station that night, in the shape of a fluorescent light flashing at the other end of the lot, there was a slight noise of steps and clothes being stripped off, no hesitation, no resistance, no violence, in the cool breeze after the scorching day, anything is justifiable climate-wise. And then no kiss, no call, no follow-up. Who expects who is supposed to had not been made clear and the sharp light of daybreak lit but the black fumes of the exhaust pipes. Buses running off in all directions to the Puerta del Sol and into the city, possibly beyond.


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