The night was quiet in the small Spanish square. Few people were about, the last for the day; the bakers were cleaning their counter-tops, the butchers were storing their meat, the civilians were long gone, all safely tucked up in bed, whiling time away in slumber to await the next sunrise.
He stood alone. They'd have all left, not that he minded solitude. The fountain was all that was in his line of sight.
The fountain. Centerpiece of the square, it was built in the 1800s. Carved of white marble, lined with golden leafings, it was worn by age. A long crack ran perpendicular to the second tier where the French motar struck. Its age only seemed to make it grander.
The marble angels perched precariously atop the fountain. Each had a kindly expression, ready to serve, ready to save. He stood, gazing at them, a worried furrow on his brow. The white columns supporting the tiers looked sturdy enough.
Kicking off his shoes and peeling off his socks, he stepped into the cold fountain, its waters clear. He wriggled his toes.
Yes, he could feel the cold between them. He waded forward towards the center of the huge fountain where the second tier stood, and heaved himself upon the rim. Seated upon it now, he reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a silver crucifix. She had given it to him several weeks ago, before she left. Since then, he had visited her grave for hours each day, oblivious to time.
He fingered the long, delicate chain that was hers, and then slowly placed it on his tongue. It tasted metallic, but salty, as he closed his mouth around it. Then, with a soft smile, he immersed himself in the clear water, his clothes getting heavier as they absorbed the liquid.
From beneath the surface, he opened his eyes to gaze at the night sky. The stars were waiting for him.
He smiled and took a deep breath.
He stood alone. They'd have all left, not that he minded solitude. The fountain was all that was in his line of sight.
The fountain. Centerpiece of the square, it was built in the 1800s. Carved of white marble, lined with golden leafings, it was worn by age. A long crack ran perpendicular to the second tier where the French motar struck. Its age only seemed to make it grander.
The marble angels perched precariously atop the fountain. Each had a kindly expression, ready to serve, ready to save. He stood, gazing at them, a worried furrow on his brow. The white columns supporting the tiers looked sturdy enough.
Kicking off his shoes and peeling off his socks, he stepped into the cold fountain, its waters clear. He wriggled his toes.
Yes, he could feel the cold between them. He waded forward towards the center of the huge fountain where the second tier stood, and heaved himself upon the rim. Seated upon it now, he reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a silver crucifix. She had given it to him several weeks ago, before she left. Since then, he had visited her grave for hours each day, oblivious to time.
He fingered the long, delicate chain that was hers, and then slowly placed it on his tongue. It tasted metallic, but salty, as he closed his mouth around it. Then, with a soft smile, he immersed himself in the clear water, his clothes getting heavier as they absorbed the liquid.
From beneath the surface, he opened his eyes to gaze at the night sky. The stars were waiting for him.
He smiled and took a deep breath.
No comments:
Post a Comment