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ISSN 1409-6900 | UDK 82+7     Blesok no. 100 | volume  | September, 2015



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                     Peer-reviewed journal
Blesok no. 100September, 2015
Prose

The balcony was as long as the room

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p. 1
Igor Isakovski

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The balcony was as long as the room

The balcony was as long as the room, around eight meters, but it was quite narrow: when they’d sit on the chairs, they could barely cross their legs. And so they would stretch them out over the railing, wiggle their toes and laugh like children while the wind caressed their feet. The wind almost always blew from the southwest, carrying even more warmth and more humidity. On the balcony they’d have a drink mixed with water before sunset, before taking off onto the streets that were sometimes dirt roads, sometimes wider streets congested with traffic. That one drink before sunset was for him an indicator of how the evening would go: instinctively, almost secretly, he would measure the time they’d need to drink it up; the longer the time, the calmer the evening. It seemed to him that after the first one, the glasses only followed the rhythm they’d set up at the beginning of the evening.
      
    At night, the balcony was lighted by the neighboring lights. He kept asking for it to be fixed, but it seemed that in the land of the beautiful sea and terrible roads this would take a while. One night, he made a promise to her and himself that he would find tools to fix the light on the balcony. So they’d be able to drink like normal people after dinner. She kissed his right temple while the southwest wind tangled up their long hair together. He likes the touch of her lips, the scent of her skin under all the suntan lotion, the shower gel, the cream for her body, hands, feet, everything mingled up with her perfume. He likes it that underneath all that, under that milky way of scents, he can always make out her very own scent, the naked scent of her skin. Just like the first time he woke up beside her: he first gently touched her with his index finger, wanting to make sure she was there, that he wasn’t dreaming of her lying beside him. Then he smelled her. He sniffed her, first once, then descended down the line of her body that slept sideways, sniffing like a dog up and down mountain ridges and valleys, with the thought and desire of going home. Her scent was a guide towards the calmness and the home deep within






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