Memory and Kiss

There’s a couch in the tunnel. People, molded by the crevices of time, pass by it brushing their hands at the fine texture of its cover. Some, tired of running, sit on it and weep. The skeleton of the couch is of plastic – injection molded in a one-cavity mold and just as its runners are simply cut off from its back, the despairs of those sitting on it are easily forgotten by the onlookers. But they remember the texture.

There’s a ring-necked parakeet on my window.  It flutters its green wings and a breeze blows through my hair. It’s raining outside and the parakeet is struggling to dry itself. I switch off my air conditioner and the breeze stops to blow. Taken aback by the sudden absence of compressor’s noise, the parakeet flies away. I open the glass window and the breeze starts to blow yet again, but the parakeet is gone.

There’s a time in her basket. The time gone by and she covers it with flowers on the top – Orchids, Lavenders and roses with spherical drops of water on the petals. She sings and flows through the streets wet with the morning rain, smelling the aroma of wet earth, smiling all along. It is then when a honey-bee sits on the flowers and drinks the salty nectar. She sees this and shoos away the bee, digs in her basket and shrugs the time off her tears.

The parakeet on its way to the nest catches the honey bee with its red beak and flies and flies. Tired of flying, it lands on the couch in the tunnel that cuts through a mountain. It’s cold and it is shivering. The bee long dead rests in its beak. The passers-by brush their hands at the smooth texture of parakeet’s feathers and move on. The girl in the city, stuffs some more time beneath the flowers and kisses him. A soft, gentle kiss.