The Newness Of Daytime
From dreams she appeared, leaving all with no option but turn to their own muses in hope of finding symbols to save them from the tumult she afflicted upon their beings. Through her eyes shone a terrifying ferocity, and yet her feet fell upon floors like the kind of waves that nibble shores, her words were wafts of air from an oven cooking the sort of bread that gives you bones when for too long you’ve been made up of nothing harder than blood and flesh and worry.
He pretended to be looking for something in his bag to hide that he was waiting for her to finish exchanging sleepy-eyed pleasantries with the receptionist. Those eyes were not sleepy with tiredness, they squinted with compassion, as if afraid to hurt any soul by being too much of a window into the baffling secrets of one who is not a lover or a fighter but a fighter for love.
Having found what he wasn’t looking for at almost the exact moment she left the reception onto the porch, he looked up from his bag with his bottle freshly in hand. “Hi” he said, suppressing a gulp before taking a swig of near-tepid water. “Hi” she said with a smile that was not forced but was bigger than what she felt. “How did you find the training?” he asked, doubting whether he really cared but unable to think of anything else for his mind flowed over with visions of their adventures…
