Hourglass
prologue
Her posture reflects her feelings.
Shoulders rounded, head tilted slightly to the side and her lower back and abs relaxed, she is slumped and feels empty. Tired, her body has let all the tension slide from her muscles, though the quiet sadness which plagues her is, as ever, present. As she sits, the music playing goes unheard, the rolling swish and crunch of the sea over rocks filling her mind instead. Her eyes don't see the desk in front of her, and her hands imagine the coarse texture of driftwood.
Four weeks. That's all she has until the ocean and the life she's always known is behind her. Melancholy, she considers what has happened over the past four years. Making and losing friends; sadness over men and boys, over friends and school, over family and death and loss. She considers the happiness she found, exploring a city she lived in her whole life and never experienced; happiness over friends and laughter, cold tea and hot chocolate in cafes and bars, gardens and fake accents, parties on the parliament lawns, and perching on the side of the breakwater.
She can feel the sea breeze in her hair, the smell of saltwater and seaweed, the sharp cry of wheeling seagulls. Idly she fingers the tattoo on her shoulder; an auditory person, she equates the seagull with the ocean and the ocean with home, and home, oh home, is what she will miss.
The scene which she has painted for herself, vivid in her imagination, starts to tear and shred around the edges, streaks peeling away like paper set to fire. The blues and greys which she imagines are replaced by greens and the pale pink of the sky at dusk. No longer drifting in a fresh breeze, she feels the weight of humid air pressing on her back and can almost sense sweat start to bead upon her back. The flat, rolling hills stretch out in all directions; fields for crops rather than wild forest fill the land from feet to horizon, broken only by the myriad of lakes which dot the region.
She remembers, however, the breeze which gently ruffled the leaves of the maples in the park. She remembers the soft green grass under her feet, and how pleasant the heat really was, in the evening and early morning. She remembers the short drive, an easy trip, to see him.
At last, a smile is drawn from her face, and the sadness which for days had weighed down her body is lifted. She remembers the man for which she's moving, the life for which she's trading up, and the future which she will make with him.
Shoulders rounded, head tilted slightly to the side and her lower back and abs relaxed, she is slumped and feels empty. Tired, her body has let all the tension slide from her muscles, though the quiet sadness which plagues her is, as ever, present. As she sits, the music playing goes unheard, the rolling swish and crunch of the sea over rocks filling her mind instead. Her eyes don't see the desk in front of her, and her hands imagine the coarse texture of driftwood.
Four weeks. That's all she has until the ocean and the life she's always known is behind her. Melancholy, she considers what has happened over the past four years. Making and losing friends; sadness over men and boys, over friends and school, over family and death and loss. She considers the happiness she found, exploring a city she lived in her whole life and never experienced; happiness over friends and laughter, cold tea and hot chocolate in cafes and bars, gardens and fake accents, parties on the parliament lawns, and perching on the side of the breakwater.
She can feel the sea breeze in her hair, the smell of saltwater and seaweed, the sharp cry of wheeling seagulls. Idly she fingers the tattoo on her shoulder; an auditory person, she equates the seagull with the ocean and the ocean with home, and home, oh home, is what she will miss.
The scene which she has painted for herself, vivid in her imagination, starts to tear and shred around the edges, streaks peeling away like paper set to fire. The blues and greys which she imagines are replaced by greens and the pale pink of the sky at dusk. No longer drifting in a fresh breeze, she feels the weight of humid air pressing on her back and can almost sense sweat start to bead upon her back. The flat, rolling hills stretch out in all directions; fields for crops rather than wild forest fill the land from feet to horizon, broken only by the myriad of lakes which dot the region.
She remembers, however, the breeze which gently ruffled the leaves of the maples in the park. She remembers the soft green grass under her feet, and how pleasant the heat really was, in the evening and early morning. She remembers the short drive, an easy trip, to see him.
At last, a smile is drawn from her face, and the sadness which for days had weighed down her body is lifted. She remembers the man for which she's moving, the life for which she's trading up, and the future which she will make with him.