Eight Seconds
Flash fiction
The first time I saw him, he was walking along a grey university hallway. He was carrying a small suitcase and a guitar. He had curly hair and absurdly big, blue eyes. His aura was dark, wild, erotic and destructive. I dropped all the books I was holding.
The second time I saw him, he was in the middle of a dark basement filled with yellowish light. He was singing Spanish songs, which, at that time, I didn’t understand at all. His expression seemed slightly drunk, pretty much confused and totally unsure of where to go next. All I wanted to do was hold him in my arms. I didn’t.
We looked at each other in this tiny space filled with random human beings. He smiled. This is how it always begins: you meet someone who suddenly smiles at you and you recognize them. You recognize them among hundreds of people and you smile back. This is how it begins. But when — how — does it end?
If you stopped me on the street on one of those sunny days and asked me “And for you, what is love?”, I would certainly have answered that love is exactly that; to be in a room filled with people, look at each other and just know.
We shared two years, one month and six days of our lives. Two years might seem really insignificant in the course of existence, of a lifetime, like a short chapter in a book or a shooting star in a…
