A Month Later in Nîmes

In the back studio, Sylvie air-brushed the ventral fins’ spines with henna; Kirill embraced her as thanks for a caffè macchiato. In the middle, Élodie sanded her thousandth maple scale; there, he pressed the saucer-sized blank and her hand to his face to imbibe a fragrance like morning perfume on nighttime skin.

In the fore, I sweated the god-damned dorsal mounting; he asked ‘Manon?’, then stopped, covered his mouth with a hand, and thrummed blunt fingers on his cheek. He was done fucking me.

A month later in Nîmes a wooden fish mobile crushed the artist. Shoddy anchor bolts…apparently.


100 words on day 862

4 Replies to “A Month Later in Nîmes”

  1. @ kirsten, much of my interesting writing comes from pictures and artwork I find around the net. I like to give them some credit no matter how little or how much they might influence my words. This one was a bit more obvious than usual.

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