4:08

She reaches for the door handle and closes her palm on the glazed bronze.

The hand withdraws

abruptly

as if it’d grazed a burning stove

and ventures towards the right pocket of her fur coat.

It is still warm in there.

She stretches out her five long fingers

and her monstrous turquoise-blue acrylic nails run through the bottom of the pocket

hungry

impassive

poisonous

They suddenly hit the bottom of the aquarium and close on the set of keys like a net on a big carp.

She presses the melodious scales and sticks the fish in the lock

Hears a click and pushes the heavy door

The carcass lands on the little wood table in the middle of the living room with a deafening crash.

She grabs a tissue with her left hand and makes an abrupt mouvement to tear it from top to bottom.

The tearing is imperfect, yet she grabs a bit and presses it against her red lip only to abandon it on the lukewarm parquet.

She notices the warmth, the smell of cigarettes and the musky scent of sweat mixed with perfume, and lets her coat slide to the ground. She then attacks the fake eyelash. It leads an honourable fight but the insect doesn’t stand a chance against the fantastic blue claws.

Here’s the cat abundantly licking his behind. She scratches the top of its head two or three times and heads to the bathroom.

Half an eye-lash

a oozing mascara

and red lipstick spread on her right cheek

She doesn’t seem to recognize this Picasso.

Absently she presses her phalanx across the fresh painting and examines her index covered in charcoal.

Here’s how she left the party

Or rather

Here’s what the party left of her.

She closes her eyes and a smile twists her mouth.

She covers the grin with a falsely shameful palm.

She remembers his hand lingering in the hollow of her back. His index and thumb slightly pressing her wrist, and bringing back the large, thick, curly loop hanging in the middle of her forehead behind her ear. She remembers the veins running through his forearm like the gold brooks carving the Kintsugi ceramics of the living room, and the luxury watch, too dashing, too tight. She remembers his hand scratching his own beard of a few days. The way he gnawed his thumb when he was intrigued, rubbed his right eye and then ran his hand all over his face when Morpheus started teasing him, caught the bridge of his nose between his index and thumb when Migraine hit him in her turn. Palpated his thighs and buttocks through his jeans in search of the keys to his apartment, scratched the top of his left eyebrow with his middle finger, pulled his earlobe down, bit the interior of his cheek, pressed his thumb against his lower lip and scanned the room with a puzzled look when he couldn’t find them. Cracked a smile and ran his hand through his hair in a breath of embarrassment and relief when they were eventually handed back to him.

Hand.

Mirror of emotions,

sponge to memories,

translator of the invisible.

Performs and remembers,

sublimes,

betrays.

She sneaks through the bathroom door.

Resurfaces and presses the play button.

A few fingers massage the keys of a saxophone in the distance and the ghost of his perfume danses with the hot steam scrolls waddling above the shower curtain.

At 4.08, guided by the burning water, the hand finds its way back.

Hers is his and He is hers. Once again

the hand strikes the slightest piece of skin with passionate spark-

Wrist

neck

ear

hair

mole on his back

scar on her thigh

rash on his hand

bite on a lip.