The skeleton fish lay on that beach. It hadn’t lived in a year or so. Sand grind down its delicate frame with one eye turned up toward the sky. It was an eye intact, not feasted upon like the other. The skeleton fish knew of its demise, alas its journey here was dubious. How had it come to this?
There it was, my happy place, in the South of France. Each time upon entering I was reassembled into a new draft of myself. For hours I would stare at the sea. I would write, and eat, and sleep. And sometimes I would walk in the garden. Alone.
Sometimes the tiny lady opens the windows at both ends of her apartment and along with the odd lost insect an airy breeze flows through. For an instant the oh so opposite sides of the house are connected: the northern façade along the street with the southern façade facing jungled trees.
There is someone he likes. And he resists the temptation to assume any conclusion as to whether or not he likes him back. He tries to curb emotions with episodic rewatches of Mad Men. It doesn’t work. It is well past midnight and he is revisiting old friends. Some of them as old as he.
Froghert is impatient. He usually checks his greens every day at the same time and then hops out to face his routine. But today his frogoes are dirty. Forgetful as he has been lately, he failed to clean them last night. And it is her fault! She is the reason why he is so forgetful. Her name is Frogitty.