Montage

1

The cigarette was hanging between his lips, the smoke was curling up in the air. It was almost 2 in the morning. The moon was astonishingly bright and the halo, too clear to remain unnoticed. He took out his phone, wrote “Lunar halo. Have a look at the moon.”. “Aren’t you sleepy?”, a reply came before the next puff of the cigarette. He took the last puff, smiled while exhaling. He looked at the distant hills, those small lights, the other side of the river. It was the beginning of the fall, his most dear days of the year. He went back to his room. Chopin’s Nocturnes was still playing on the music player. Everything was too good to be real.

2

He took out his phone, looked at the screen. It was 10:30 pm. The roads were empty, the shops were closed. He was waiting for the cab to arrive. It was the same place where he usually waits for her for their rare meetings, those crowded yet glamorous afternoons. He wrote her before getting into the cab, that he was there.

3

It was a spring noon when they first met, at a gathering for a science exhibition. She came to his (or their) stall. After a little talk she asked him (or them) to come to her. The gathering was for two days. He forgot to ask her name before leaving on the final day. The name was on the identity card hanging around her neck, he forgot to have a look at it too.

They would meet again and she would tell him that she thought he was from the southern part of the country when she saw his name on the identity card hanging around his collar.

4

He fell asleep with the music on. The sound of the piano was gathering up in the corners of his room in a pleasant way. The moon was shining out there in the fall sky with its crystal halo.

“Why don’t you write something?”, she asked him once.

He did not have much faith in his writing abilities but she kept insisting.

5

In one of his dearest films, there was a scene where the girl gave a typewriter to the boy as a Christmas present.

“Write about us someday”, the girl typed.

“I will”, typed the boy.

6

He started writing one day. It was the beginning of the fall, his most dear days. He typed the first few words holding the cigarette between his lips.

The smoke was curling up in the air.

…………………………

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