Wayne H.W. Wolfson
photography by Durlabh Singh


It was hot.

The only thing to mark the passage of time was the movement of the palm's shadow. Another hour and the position of my chair would be senseless. Our agreed upon time done, the shadow gets up to now lie beside me. With soft moans, birds leapt from one potted plant to another also looking for relief. 

I never used the pool, but I liked to sit out here. Always the same chair. Maybe the Argentinean girls that just moved in would show up. They swam. My eyes wandering from my book only to take little nibbles. I don't know how well I mustered subtlety.

I pretended to not know what they were saying, but with certain words my ears would prick up. Desire could bleed through, could stain. The trick was to string all these chance encounters together into something better, letting fate do all the work. Something better or nothing, a distraction. A handful of loose beads, possibilities can be sustaining.

Nothing will happen this time. It's all right.
The sun has done its work, baking all ambition out of me.

I will lie alone in bed. Naked except for the jasmine blossoms and Bach's cello.

I get up, my book snaps shut with a lazy weight. One of the girls says hello and smiles. In my head I am always changing their names to fit my mood. Her kisses would be sweet, eating a piece of mint thick with sap. Maybe she's a little young. 

The perfect kiss will never cease, it's finding it that takes a lifetime.

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