Still Life

He dreamed he saw Catalina, the breeze stirring her hair, a clear sky above and the hot sun. Perhaps it was in Nicaragua, the volcanoes looming in the distance. The smell of her is overwhelming as he reaches for a strand of her hair.

In the evening, the sun nearly done its rapid descent, he sits to himself on a bench in the main square of the sleepy town. As they do everyday, the birds flock to the trees, small crow-like things, a cacophonous symphony. There is heaving laughter around him, those gathered at the day’s end to share a tale. All he can hear are his own screams, as he batters helplessly against the walls, while the air just seeps out.  His heart, he thinks, is corrosive.

Maybe it was Granada. He can remember the volcanoes and the heat, the way the clouds would roll across the sky in the afternoon. There was a quiet intersection, pink and turquoise buildings, two old women crossing slowly and a child playing across the street. He can see it all as it was in that very moment, a careless glance as he went on his way, now preserved, all fluid drawn off, unlikely to decay.


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