Toutes Les Fleurs Gabilla 1925

His gaze.
Seeking hers.

She sat at her table.
Pulled on the tip of her cigarette.
Looked around.

The dull light of the setting sun.
The hall.
Bathed in warm colors.
Brown and silky dark red.
Shimmering.

Curtains.
Hyacinth blue.
Like her big eyes.

Magnificent vases.
Large bouquets of flowers.
Lush.
Artfully arranged.

Deep dark roses.
Freesias.
A little leafy green too.

Little lilies of the valley.
On the tables.

Slowly.
He walked towards them.

"Do you mind?"

A smile.
She rose.

Her scent.
Deeply he sucked it in.

A little fruity.
Citrusy, too.
The air.
It seemed to shimmer.
Lavender soap.

Spice.
Fine and aromatic.
She danced.
Moved.
Among white blossoms.
Robbed them.
Kept them.
From overflowing sweet nectar.
Seemed to float.
Up and down.
Wove through the bouquet.

Her dress.
Green as rich moss.
In the soft evening light.
Silky rustling.

He felt its warmth.
Peach-like skin.
Rose-lipped mouth.
Cinnamon warm glow.
In her hair.

Under her feet.
The dull wooden parquet floor.
Light. Dark.
Like fir honey.
Melting.
Shifting.

Cat.
Lithely lurking.
Flowing.
To the beat of the music.
Dajos Béla.
Tango Solitario.

The earth was spinning.
With a little melancholy.