She gets out of the bathroom, moving uncoordinatedly, but smoothly from left to right, from the bathroom to towards the couch; she throws herself in a slow motion movement on the couch, with a shallow spin, almost without weight.
Her eyes are humid, tears showing up, the effort, the tension, the pressure from the back of her neck, all of these make her wish this day didn’t have a beginning. Alcohol and syrup, a dizzy hangover after a few hours’ sleep, kidnapped from what belonged to the night.
The moon shaped tattoo on her foot gravitates around her birthmark. It’s almost tied to a handmade anklet, violently colored. The loose snowflake pattern trousers are a bit too purple for the white and green stripped t-shirt. Her nose pierce sparkles infinitely less than her red eyes.
Her left arm is left behind on a cushion even after she gets up and rushes towards the bathroom again, towards the door that bears a ‘Do Not Slam The Door’ sign.
