When Frances fell on the rollerdrome, azure spurted from her knee.
Her brother, an idiot, was laughing with the foreteeth yellowed due to Kinder and Berlusconi’s afternoons*.
She didn’t lament, at once standing came back to the exercise.
She hated Bob Dylan, as his discs were collected by the uncle who abused her at seven. She snobbed Siddharta, because the public library’s copy smelled bad.
Andrew smiled. Looked up, and judged that it makes no sense taking everything personally. But Frances couldn’t give up her painted constellations. They had never betrayed her.
But she inserted a new sphere. Added that smile which bares the heart in exchange for nothing. And she thought she would have always been with the man who had unconsciously retrieved that memory. One whom, not as Andrew, she could awaken many times at his side.
When Andrew, in advance of his case history, died, Frances’ hospital traineeship was already over. At 4 p.m., on chair’s tip, she was exorcising chemistry to her pupil. With those imaginative mental associations which had always come with her. Taking personally.
Azure spurted from her knee. The second time I wasn’t there. But for sure it went this way. There was only azure, in the passenger compartment.
Azure the rose I leant on the wood, last February. For what it’s worth. For turning off a bulb, in my painted constellation. Where Frances’ uncle, who at the cemetery vainly sought for my shoulder, and others as him, can’t come in. They instead follow the inertial force of that hand, which sinks into thin air.
.
