Recollecting Dreams: Running late

We were invited to go out to eat lunch.

Photo by Michael Foster on Pexels.com

Our original spot was too warm, crowded, bustling with muffled conversations.

We walked to a faraway market, a place that would take over thirty minutes to get back from.

The man who took my order of a strange boba drink asked me to stamp my thumb print in place of paying. Green ink clung to the infinite swirls of my skin.

There was a tiny restroom out in the open, a toilet settled in a corner. You can almost feel a light spring breeze blowing against your cheeks as you sit and release.

We got our drinks, but it was time to go.

I started running fast, not caring about my injured ankle. My legs grew heavier as each second passed. The warm sun mocked me.

You did not run. You were walking slowly, as if the world was in your hands.

I held hard lenses in my palms. But they broke.

No longer could I correct my vision.

Frustration filled me as I heard the bell in the distance.

It was too late.

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