A white owl on the other building. A blackboard. Something about Homer.
Afternoons had stopped visiting us. They didn’t really care about literary theory. Sometimes, looking at that pale, fading light of an early evening (which always has a hint of darkness), I wondered if it would be better to be an afternoon. Or, an early evening. It seemed nice and they looked happy, with that perfect transparency of melancholy.
Some people are certain times of the day. I was an afternoon. I was so certain of being that time, that one day I stood in that afternoon light, sure of not being recognized because I was so much like that light.
Like that afternoon light.
Which flies and tries to hide in a jasmine bush until the night can smell it.