That immense polished gemstone of a sky, the lazy flux of a breeze. The contrasting moist of the green green lawn, the warm breath of the earth. The sleepy shade of the pinetrees, the rustling of eucalypt leaves. The birds’ chirping, the mechanical business of insects, the odour of flowers having sex. Her early adolescence slow moving time. All this moved her into action, to appease a new itchy world of sensations, of which she was both a pioneer and a native.
Two younger cousins were playing on the sunlit porch. She brought an old bedsheet out of her aunt’s thick wooden trunk, rolled herself in it, and got rid of her one-piece summer dress. ‘Come here, you two,’ she lured them in.
They went in vivaciously, just as innocence goes everywhere. It was a new kind of play. They were told to kiss her slopped ground, twin promontories covered in sunburnt grass that swayed by force of electrical winds. The summits were suddenly rugged, as if to guide blind babies to the wells. It was enjoyable even for the cousins's asexual lips, like recovering a lost pleasure, like an old family’s portrait.
The afternoon trickled down the horizon. Grandmother’s voice called from afar.
