19 years ago:
‘Everything is like a pattern, Axalia. A repeated score of music.’
The salsa wrap gripped loosely in his firm fingers had grown cold from the winds after an autumnal shower, and the city smelled of wet soil, leaves and a slow evening.
Someone had kept the radio on, far away from the place they were sitting – and it had a strange, old tune playing that he couldn’t really place anywhere in his mind. But it was familiar, he had heard it before. On a day just like this one – after a long, monotonous rain.
Axalia’s clothes still clung to her body, making her look skinnier than she was. His own hair was damp, but there was a strange warmth exploding from his insides.
If only it had rained on and on.
She is rain, if I am summer.
Gerard took another bite of the wrap…
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