The short story I randomly read in a weekly magazine embeds a soft, still unplugged guitar; the dark violet sky colors the upstage. And music is coating everything up in a sweet yet, refreshing, flower-like scent.
Sunday night, around ten o’clock, I was coming back from Iasi
It’s strange how things are linked. Few random words retrieved in milliseconds a clear picture of rails, the smell of tar, dust and metal, the fuzzy sound of voices and trains…all these made me remember her. We used to live in the same town, we were in the same university. Never too close, never friends. She studied French, she used to write poems, and I was looking at her with admiration and childish yet well tempered envy. And now, digging through my scattered, faded memories she had some sort of French like features, mignon, dark haired, heartfelt smile. That day, probably more than ten years ago, in the same North Railway Station, in a hot summer day, at the end of the platform he was waiting for her with big a bunch of marigolds. Tall, thin, in white shirt, smiling a bit shy while giving her flowers. She was wearing a simple long white dress, her dark hair in a ponytail, a blue bag. And that big bouquet of orange marigolds… I was watching them disappear from sight off the dusty platform in a world of hasty, indifferent, tired, busy, never dreaming people. Two thin white silhouettes hand in hand, leaving behind echoes and shadows of an odd whispered love song.
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