The scent of your skin II
di Beatrice Fabbri
Late at night, she was sleepless, alone with the ghost and his smell. The kitchen was looking so creepy with your shadow on the wall, she whispered. She wasn’t scared at all, just wondering why he had decided to visit her randomly on a Friday night. She kept thinking about him and their affair made of long absences and sudden reunions for coffees, long walks along the river, some movie nights, and what else? She couldn’t remember exactly what was this affair about. Needless to say, she gave up first, she let him go, she had to.
No complains, she later told me on the phone. I have been her best friend since the age of nine and still can count on her as she can count on me. We have often arguments on several daily issues. I am soft, she is kind of rude. I am talkative, she is silent and tons and tons of opposites between us, that I could write a paper on it. But then, I don’t care too much, she made me laugh, cry, hope and never surrender and that’s enough.
Now she needed me more than I expected. She called me at 2:00 a.m and I rushed to her aid. She was pale but charming with that shabby pajama drinking a cup of soya milk. I sat down and breath.
What’s up?
Nothing she said. Look at the wall please, down there, could you see his profile?
What? I wear my eye glasses and nothing but the shadow of the lamp on the wall. Then, I felt embarrassed. I didn’t want to hurt her by replying something wrong.
Well, let’s see. I stood up and walked slowly close to the right angle of the wall and I felt I could smell a musky, spiced scent. I was overwhelmed by it.
Are you ok? She said.
Yes, you’re right. His profile disappeared but he left a strong scent.
I opened the window. It was 4:00 a.m and a crescent moon was watching us with tenderness.
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