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