When the sun takes longer to set in London, it shines brighter on its women. Behind them, there was young woman in a blue bikini.
She's certainly hot, says one of the men. There is a suggestive glint in his eyes. He's the louder one of the two; the more cheerful; the one better endowed with the spirit of life. The other man remains quiet, but makes an observation: I like the shine on her thigh, he says.
When people's skin were heated by the sun, something warm awoke in their hearts. This warmth had nothing to do with the sun, it was intrinsic, like the core of the world that was as hot as the surface of our star. The shine was a catalyst, not the source. This shine on her thigh, he assumed, must have caused her to warmth. They speak of writing, drink to writing, and smoke for writing. The boisterous writer translates Piaf, the quieter one listens intently. There is fervour in his voice. It was one that, the quiet one thought, uplifted his fellow man. As they exchanged their work, the happy writer went silent. When he read poetry, he had a peculiar way of closing his ears so that only the cadence of the words before him reached his brain and not the rhymes of nature that sung in such parks. When he read the quiet writer's prose, he paused, and repeated it to himself - I knew her breasts. I knew her - there will be many women, he said, who would misunderstand you. Would you consider changing it?
You may not be read by many.
I'm not writing to be read.
You write for yourself ---
His eyes rose from the grass because a memory formed a smile. That's what she said too, the silent writer says.
You love women... says the happy writer.
Because the glint on her thigh looked beautiful. Nature was a woman's accessory that she didn't know of.
And you try to understand them?
Not in the way they seek to understand themselves ---
They light another cigarette each - Edith is singing - there is a cheery air about the place and people are laughing.
If I am to be born again - if one is to subscribe to such a belief - I'd want to be born a man. There is a convex, the pensive man says, a gentle curve - here his hand rises and draws a lunette - that a woman's breasts make when they are naked and standing. I like running my fingers below it. In tracing the crescent, I feel its gentle weight on the tips of my fingers. This weight differs from woman to woman; if I close my eyes, I can remember them for all the women I've experienced. Have you noticed - he returns from his mind, and looks into his friend's eyes - that their skin are the smoothest here? They should have a name for it.
He finishes the wine in his glass. The woman in the bikini has now left. Neither, had noticed her leaving.
And do you remember hers?
I've never experienced hers.
You're such a sensual person - what you just said… it makes me want to fuck a woman.
The pensive man laughs a crisp laugh.
It was through loving that I found the lunette.