he meets her a few days after,
having to leave newspapers at the professor's doorstep.
she is leaning on the fence,
a hand on her hip and a frown curled on her face.
it is to complain about the crumpled edges of
the newspaper she's been recieving.
making him search the bundle tied to his cycle,
smoothening a crispy one in her hands later,
in satisfaction.
"you smell like oranges," she says,
"i do have a farm."
"i like seeing oranges, but the ones sold in the city
are always sour, they are never sweet." she says.
"i will get you a few oranges tomorrow,
the sweet ones, i promise."
— if he thought of her for the rest of his remaining day, no one knew about it.
YOU ARE READING
through your words of mime
Poetryit's through your words of mime, that conversations themselves lost track of their time. · part three of woven shreds.
