pocket-change [era x florentine]
Apr 2, 2024 16:28:28 GMT -5
Post by florentine, d4b ❁ on Apr 2, 2024 16:28:28 GMT -5
florentine.
. . .
i smoke a joint on the rocks and look out at the sea.
the waves are restless but quiet about it; the tide is just finishing its retreat and the sand reaches out a long, sweeping finger to beckon it back. i am so aware of the feeling of the cold wind on my cheeks; the blood flooding into them; i am alive, it is true after all. i sit for an hour, and then glance at my watch to see that five minutes have passed. i throw some rocks into the sea, chew a stick of gum i find deep in my pocket, and watch the clouds.
the sky is a deep blue, broken infrequently by clouds with clearly defined edges. there is a cat with a long curling tail, and a house with a tall front gate. i daydream about setting the capitol on fire and watching crouched in the bushes as it crumples up like a piece of paper and falls away into dust. i think about drowning. i dip my bare feet in the water for a while and let the fish nibble at me until i grow bored and defensive of my skin and i take it back from them.
i wander away from the water, follow the street up into town. in the park, families are laying about, drinking in the sun. i float along next to them. they don’t notice me, don’t even look up from their books or their sandwiches. on the far side of the park there is a school. it is late afternoon, just about the time that these institutions generally free their stuffy little inhabitants. i am magnetised by it, fascinated by them like they are ants in a child’s magnifying glass. i like to watch them. i like to watch them squirm.
there is a spot i go sometimes; a stone pillar on one of the school’s extravagant gates i sit on, swinging my legs, observing. nobody ever notices me. i am well dressed, head to toe in stolen jewellery and carefully hand-stitched skirts. it is a disguise, designed to be invisible. my hair is brushed and braided, my cheeks dabbed with just the right amount of swiped rogue. the schoolchildren spill out like wine over the edge of a glass. they dribble this way and that, eyed glazed over in their clamour for whatever comes next in their day. they think themselves awfully important.
that is when i notice him. he is handsome, beautiful, really, unfairly so, gifted with both material fortune and a perfect face. his blazer and tie look as though they were designed just for him, he is so at home in them. he is the archetype, the one bratty rich kid to rule them all. i can see it on his face. he has no fucking idea. i watch him a while. i bet he smells like soap and candles and leather. i put on my prettiest smile.