shlimazl
“Let me live, love, and say it well in good sentences.”
When the lovers parted, they left a book of matches on the gilded table. The tiled floor was cold and no matter how thick the socks and slippers, the chill ran straight up the lover's legs and into their bones. The smaller one cried out often in their sleep; they were not used to ridicule. The larger one was more resilient, with long hair and warm skin that always looked flushed. The lovers heated water on the stove and drank ginger tea with honey. They boiled potatoes and roasted vegetables and chicken with paprika. The red bled onto their fingertips and when the little one cried, she wiped her face and her eyes burned. There was no way to move the static. The air was so heavy the incense would not light. The lovers felt the clinginess to something that had settled to the floor like feathers from a torn cushion. The lightness needed to be contained. They were maladapted to regimen and yet needed the rule. The struggle lasted for days. The bathroom was damp and the orange carpet smelled of mold. Great white birds with black wings swooped across the window, which the lovers took as a positive omen, for fowl represented freedom. Cleaning was contagious, and as they swept and mopped the patio of the rain, a litter of kittens appeared on the rooftop. The mother licked their faces until their eyes peeped open. Blue, so blue. She carried each by its neck and tucked the kittens in the corner of the stark apartment and the lovers did not mind, for felines symbolized magic. When night came, the kittens cried and pissed on the floor. The moon was a sliver in the clouds and the lovers knew, looking at its crooked mouth, that there was no luck where love was lost. Where did we put it? How do we find it? There was hope outside the room, that small wet room with the cats and only calamity! The two decided to part and collected their things in separate bags. Leaving the cats and the book of matches. The real trouble began when the lovers forgot how to spark.
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