stella-slick

The evening is still, and quiet. Running his fingers through his damp hair, he sits on the patio and thinks about the day behind him. The grass smells of the day’s sun and he can still feel its heat. His can of beer isn’t so cold anymore, but the taste on his tongue is all he needs.
The light reflecting off the pond gradually changes colour as one moment moves into another. He thinks about the uncontrollable nature of time and the uncontrollable nature of nature. He feels small, and yet he is certain that any minute, on this still, quiet evening, something significant will happen. Sitting there in his garden, he suddenly feels unbearabley lonely. He picks up his phone and she answers on the first attempt but not immediately. She seems distracted; she’s with other people.
‘What are you doing?’ she says.
‘I got wet hair and I’m drinking Stella,’ he says.
‘Well what do you want me to do about it?’ she says.
And he doesn’t know what to say to that.
Once again, silence.
Before he’s aware of it, the light is gone and he sits alone in darkness.

stella-slick

hair-flick

finger-click

tock-tick

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