induratize
“I have to get stronger—like a stray crow.
”
the restaurant was a maze of silk runways and silver streamers. white umbrellas and tiny lights that twinkled from sunrise till starset. green palms lined the paths and ponderosas dangled from archways. the ceiling was coated in purple, yellow, orange and fuchsia flowers. the stems tied to transparent thread. a cornucopia of petals and glass.
gazelles grazed on the terrace. honey brown and white, their hooves leaving no trace that they’d tread upon the earth. their tongues, small and pink, sources the fine grass to coat their bellies. sensitive to light and sound, the meekest cried and tucked their hornless heads under the month’s womb, trying to climb back where it was once cool, quiet, and contained.
a dj took the floor when the sky flushed purple and blue behind the mountain. the sun spinning its rays faster than the musician's hands, no one ever danced. movement tousled the display and the women were not as elegant as the springboks in their hooves. children swarmed the tables in the back ring like ants to a sugarcane. their faces red with sun and puffy from withheld rage. drink more, their mother purr, presenting watered-down wine.
ladies in scarlet dresses. gold earrings and beaded anklets. they teeter as they walk, bells ringing from a toe ring. hair festooned with ribbons and rubber. lashes like spider legs, thick and hairy. grotesque is the new gaudy is the new gauche is the new gorgeous. where are the girls? the men yell as the moon takes her seat in the sky. pulsing, the sun shifts lower and lower. no one cares until morning what goes on behind that vast curtain. anything is possible while wearing the correct outfit.
gazpacho served in tall crystal glasses. sipped from a cold spoon. lips puckered. espetos seasoned and grilled over an open flame. jalapeño peppers wrapped in oily sardines and olives. deep red gammas a la plancha. polbo á feira in a sweet paprika cauldron. the classic Catalan bread rubbed with fresh tomato, raw garlic, oil and salt. fiesta para los sentidos; a feast for the senses. rings clack against the porcelain dishes. the servers wear the same black tie and shiny shoes as they saunter from bar to table. music spins an aroma of ease as couple fork pieces of octopus and potato into each other's open mouths.
wanting- always wanting more than we have.
Photo source.
