Fire and Ice

One by one, like fireflies in the forest, they went on around dinner time, illuminating bottles of wine and mouth-watering meatloaves and leftover chunks of bread from yesterday's supper. Round dinner tables surrounded by velvet-lined chairs under elaborate chandeliers or rectangular formica desks with creaky metal seats beneath naked lightbulbs.

Then they came, formal and silent, but undeniably together, to sit down in graceful and synchronized moves and eat. Under the same starry night sky, under the same slice of moon... but sheltered and warm, unlike me.

I sat on my balcony, a cigarrette on one hand and a pristine glass of water on the other, and waited until the very last minute I was allowed the privacy of my room. My balcony, to be more precise. My netted cage of a balcony.

My bare legs felt cold and my freezing feet, numb. I wrapped my arms snugly around my chest and took the very last drag before flinging the down-to-the-filter ciggie away into the night. I watched it fall, eight stories down, its half-dead tip still burning in its plunge to death. I uncrossed one arm and absent-mindedly fingered my hair back and let out a sigh.

Then I turned around and stepped back inside. And while the space in itself felt physically warmer than my utterly beloved balcony, my heart cooled down and transformed back into a lonely ice-cube, two parallel lines melting out through the window of my watery eyes.

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