Amuse Bouche

July smells like a ribwort.

Something thick in the middle atmosphere breaks into small particles, decomposing in her trachea without any prior notice. Particles of Joy, Youth, Exaltation. Dense air becomes highly contagious, though incredibly efficient, to bring all people of G down to Rhône.

It was one of those careless July nights. Easier to exhale rather than inhale; better to sit still rather than move. Overcrowded wooden platform, ready to drown hundreds of young tanned bodies into powder-blue waters. Réminiscence of Jeux d’enfants. La chasse sans parole.

That eye-piercing gaze, the one that drills like a twist bit into her cardiac muscle. Intense, but groggy and incredibly infantile. Urged to cool down the body heat, they synchronised to plunge into water.

The speed of currence brought out bottom instincts of survival, pushing them to sneak underneath the platform. The strings of baking sun were seeping through the beams and fell down like shadows on her eyelashes.

Her lower lip trembled of fear, when the whirlpool twisted her legs down to the bottom. Agitation turned into a moment of sanctity. Moment of innocence turned into a crime scene. Her upper lip got unlocked. She inhaled and let her awe fuse in the summer steam.

Interflow lasted 4,5 seconds. They crawled back upstairs, feigning innocent. Clearly a mauvais choix.

~Vale Oscula.