...a deathly serenade...

I then took a better look at her, her bare legs
careening between storied bed sheets and her
thighs in a pair of angel white denim shorts—
they were extremely white. I instantly took pity
on her, even though I had no real idea who she
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
was and of this relationship with Mohammed (I
just didn’t ask), there was just something about
those eyes...Even without the use of sentiment,
her eyes were an extreme saturation of a distant
eternity I knew full well. So I interrupted: I have
some of Lucia’s clothes here, walking to a pile
accumulated and sitting on top of a chair in front
of the small, rather shabby, oak table.
Take this, wear this, she is about your size.
Handing her a pair of Lucia’s blue jeans, she
stood up and took them before peering at B.
After a tense moment of silence, he waved her
away and she then walked into the bathroom,
very nonchalantly. B then gave me what I had
asked for: emptying a pocket and handing it to
me, whilst my periphery caught naked legs
exposed, through the door left ajar, and then
clothed. B, as if by habit, was continuing to talk
about things that punctuated a feeling that I was
watching myself where I was, without truly being
there. He only broke from this when his phone
rang and he answered it. Mohammed distracted
in the corner of the room on his phone, meant
that we shared a few words; Leila spoke them in
broken English, thanking me for the jeans as I
tried to ascertain what to say, but whatever I did
say led to her smiling, maybe she just wanted a
reason to smile, I thought, though it broke from
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