A recluse divorced from the world, she watched as the string of words cross her eyes. Eyes darting from space to space occasionally misty, with surprise, a smile, a shiver down her spine. Words with depth and meaning, of little kisses that stretched to lingerings of passion. Of everything in between and of nothing at all. Torrent of letters, free flowing like the rush of tropical rains she was used to. Nascent to her fingers, and mind, yet strangely, in a comforting envelope.
A moment in time.
…Or was he fated from the start, to live just one fleeting instant within the purlieus of your heart?
Ivan Turgenev spoke to her. Of her. A question she’d asked herself a few times lately.
Believing in fate and destiny was for the weak. One makes things happen, she’d convinced herself. Unsure of it anymore, she glanced at the little clock her dad had gifted her some 20 years ago. A frail yellowed palm sized clock that still kept perfect time. Keeping her hands steady unlike her emotions, lest she dropped it, she wound the hands around. Around and around she went, against nature, against the Sun, and against all that she believed in. Against sanity.
There, July 12th looks nice. It was a little over 2 months ago. Going back to that date wasn’t asking for the moon now was it? After all, her little clock did keep perfect time. Maybe a bit of the perfectness would rub off on her past. Wait, was that her past, or was that a future she was making?
Whatever it was, it sure wasn’t the present.