Wish fluff

The boy named snow is sleeping and lives elsewhere. Isolated in his somnambulance, for the third time this week he has a recurrent dream of slow travels as life unravels. He rides a tube train, alone, apart from the people. Lifting his eyes he meets the gaze of a girl named hannah, 23 on her last birthday. She sits, legs crossed, face painted, wears a turquoise shirt over a white dress. As he stares, the boy named snow makes no attempt to disguise his rapidly dilating pupils, nor the thump of his ever-increasing heartbeat. A girl named hannah flicks her eyes to the floor, back up to meet his then glances towards the door. They hiss open and she stands to leave. Snow rises.

-

In time the two of them will meet, like seeds blown together by the currents. At a bar chosen more for locality than comfort, their hands resting on the ash covered table and feet on sticky carpets, they will sip small drinks and make smaller talk. Suffocated by the isolation of a city trying to forget itself, they will board the first bus that comes along, pulled along by an unseen string that draws them to a pink and neon ice cream parlour in Piccadilly. They will order hot chocolates and take bites from sandwiches late into the night; silences weighing them down as they attempt to drown out the loneliness together. At 1am they will walk by the river, the large body of black water lapping at the tugging of the dark hole inside, filling them with a deep emptiness which they will neither discuss nor admit but nevertheless share. As night crawls forward they will journey to a house to continue their watch. An hour later sitting side by side on the bed of a boy named snow, wine will be poured and drunk, both of them aware of their duty and contract they have now entered into. They will make slow cold love, feeling nothing, meaning less, exchanging fluids in a hope to make up for the words that fail to pass between them.

-

In a day not far from the future, a child named rain will slip into a deserted waiting room. In this space not far from here it will be dark, cold, and his breath will frost the glass he leans on. He takes his place in the dance of the lonely.

-

the city is an insomniac and i have caught its disease