Red Room Where the Writers Are

As she walks her way out to the road gently, the man watches her steps from inside the café. She ties her coat belt and turns back to see him for the last time. The man puts the cigarette on his lips and keeps watching her. The girl takes her perfume out of her pocket and sprays it on her wrist and her neck. She takes her handkerchief out from her purse but before using it the wind blows it away and the girl laughs. She laughs so hard and sprays her perfume more on her neck. The necklace is wet, the color of the coat is wet, her hair around the neck is wet, and it is as if the rain has washed her away. He could smell her from inside the café. He could smell the sweat- sour smell of the ladies’ perfume she uses all the time. As if she is a wild free deer running around, a wild wind that never rests, a perfect salvation, an easy habit to have, a morning hello, a moving thought, a pause to a song, a gesture to the words and a scent lost among the minds. She leaves eventually, and he finishes his cigarette and goes out to the street, right to the spot where she was standing the whole few minutes ago. He breathes deeply and smells her in the air, the running deer and the easy habit. She is gone yet she is everywhere.