a.funnytimeofyear.com

You wait impatiently behind the large woman at the cash vendor, her child’s afro waning in the soft summer wind as its mother barters with the liquid screen, oblivious to your need for immediacy. Each screen fades into the next like a drug-induced film, scenes of financial imbalance preaching to a mother branded with a look of desperation. Little did you know you would find yourself with the same expression, holding back a tear when you see that your balance has undergone extreme dicing in just one week. You tap the metallic keys with little enthusiasm, gazing blankly at the crystallised screen, verstehen taking place whilst your body morphs into the same woman who stood before you. You turn your heels, heavy and crisp on the dull grey paving stones, and walk in a direction that you’re not entirely sure of, observant of the queue well-formed behind your once present figure. Financing is becoming harder than you’ve ever known, you think to yourself, and you walk the street with your wallet hidden in your shirt sleeve, pressed up against a bruised wrist that hasn’t healed for forty-two days.

You stand in the centre of an intensely white light and lit from above, your body feels light alongside your fleeting mind as the sky plummets and brandishes you with the healing powers of clairvoyance. Motionless, you close your eyes and let fear envelop you. The ephemeral whispers of strangers pass your frame, scraps of conversation forming short-lived entities of vibrations in a shell-shocked location. You can only seal your eyelids for a matter of seconds because the panic is deep and you’re unaware of your personal space. You think of the all the times you visited this location in the passing year – a rendezvous with a lost friend, or the time you waited two hours whilst it froze outside for a form you fell in love with. You almost cry at the thought of this form, beginning to wonder if a time eraser has been put to paper and scrubbed him from existence. Thinking of the time you sat, knees touching, at the bench of a foreign ground, molehills raise under your cocoa skin and you stop once again, unaware of the havoc you cause in the path rushing behind you. You compose yourself, gather your heavy belongings and continue your journey under artificial light whilst your eyes adjust their tungsten settings, and scour the area.

You listen to a pair of girls pour verbal text with a hint of a foreign accent. They watch your eyes scan pages of a book describing a Texan summer before observing the hole punched in your ear and indiscreetly commenting on the novelty of it. The words describe the experiences of a first love, the sexual passion between two skins, and your portals devour each individual letter with the delicacy of a well known chef. You masturbate in between dreams because it feels right that you should express this excess of desire, the void of sexual passion that exists between you and this form and has done for almost fourteen days. You feel an ethereal element sliding into you and close your eyes as ecstasy rushes through your skin. You inhale deeply, filling your intricate lungs with an abundance of food, and say baby, this is just one more day.