The left table's opposite

Reads: 390  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 1

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
An old artist lived in the apartment above the bar and spent his days watching people come and go.

Submitted: September 21, 2013

A A A | A A A

Submitted: September 21, 2013

A A A

A A A


He, with the bags under his eyes, eyebrows shaped like tiny crescents and mouth corners directed downwards, always seemed a bit gloomy.  His chin end was pushed up a little, making him look like a man with a speech impediment. His ears were long and their tips were dripping on the sharp end of his collarbone. I would not say that his face was unforgettable, more like very mediocre: medium-sized eyes, an almost straight nose, and perhaps a bit thin mouth. However, this was the mouth that could discuss, late into the night, the color of the evening sky. It was the nose, where the scent of salt water woke up the nostalgic flooding of thoughts. These were the eyes that were watching you and saw everything. He was anything but an ordinary boy. Through the mediocrity of his hunched figure he was expressing restrained mysteriousness and in his cracked hands I could be drowning

over and over again.

She, on the other hand, was the complete opposite; bold, sharp, red. Everything, from the artfully curled hair, to carefully lined lips, on her seemed perfect. Nevertheless, I still draw her faceless; it did not seem important. The only thing she was probably well aware of, was her strictly chic sophistication. Writing about her, I run out of words, as in spite of her perfectly rounded pre-dispositions, within she was simply

expressionless. 


© Copyright 2020 oliva. All rights reserved.

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

Add Your Comments:

Comments

avatar

Author
Reply