Taller than most girls I’d known, Sasha was 5 foot 9 inches in her bare feet. A Russian background she would offer tantalising hints of her father’s deeper textured story.
I was 18. She was 18. Her legs so long and smooth she could stop rush-hour traffic; a super-power Sasha was (often) careless with.
“Hell is other people”, she once said through a plume of smoke.
“Jean Paul Sartre.” I replied, while clearing my throat. We were smoking Gauloises. Wearing eyeliner as dark as our roll-neck sweaters.
More than ships that passed.
I wonder…
Do you remember me, Sasha?
I was 18. She was 18. Her legs so long and smooth she could stop rush-hour traffic; a super-power Sasha was (often) careless with.
“Hell is other people”, she once said through a plume of smoke.
“Jean Paul Sartre.” I replied, while clearing my throat. We were smoking Gauloises. Wearing eyeliner as dark as our roll-neck sweaters.
More than ships that passed.
I wonder…
Do you remember me, Sasha?
