Foundations

Frantically she rummaged through her claustrophobia-inducing-thirty-square-meter flat, searching for a pen, preferably not one of the discarded, worn out ones which lingered around the living room in repeating patterns but a functioning one instead, which she never seemed to have enough of.

She noticed his hair gets slightly frizzy in the humid weather and decided she liked it anyway. He wrote his phone number on the palm of her little hand, blistered but young, while simultaneously taming it from shivering. She hoped he didn`t notice. He found her knowledge of Hesse impressive. Secretly, she hoped he preferred the smell of old books over new ones.

On her way home, she was squeezing her umbrella handle unaware that she was almost completely smearing the small digits straight off. When she arrived at her doorstep and closed the damned thing, the remains of navy blue ink which seemed to be emphasizing every little imperfection on her lifeline merged with a few drops of water, desaturating its hue. She failed to find a pen bold enough to resurrect his handwriting and do it justice.

The door kindly closed itself after her hasty entrance, like they always did. She always kind of figured the foundations must have been done carelessly faulty.