Her floor's carpet (I) - borrador

Long gone December, Huck stopped in the middle of the street and stuck his face to the window.

On the other side of the glass, Cin delivered, sold and hung some pictures. It was not about beauty - it was about flowing. Movements, pictures and caramel did flow through the thick air and the glass between them.

So Huck was pushed up by the wind, straight to the end of that street, and found himself thinking wide and urgent of that caramel flavour and that envisioned self.

Not just one, but twice a day did Huck wait on the outside of that store, hoping for a glimpse of her ... as Cin kept unaware of some other existence aside pictures and colours and her floor's carpet.

She was expecting nothing, not a thing, the night she was taking her pictures at that downstairs bar. Smoke, heat, songs and conversations- here and there she greeted some known face, clicking out without logic or reason.

And there was Huck, a hat on top of his head, talking to a friend of his, who turned around and faced Cin. And the air froze on his lungs but somehow he spit out some words:

- Howdy? I saw you making pictures.

- No, I don't make pictures. I tell stories.

- So do I.

Just a few beers and laughs and silences after, the party moved up to Cin's carpet, and they talked roads and songs and flavours and names ... for so long that Huck decided to rent Cin's sofa. No need to say she was gentle enough to accept this surly hatted guest who'd paid back teaching her how to play piano.

Words and laughs and breathes were going on upon the floor's carpet the night the lightbulb burnt out.