She repeated my name

I told her lies about my life, about how and when and by whom. There were these small windows, you could barely see through them for all the dirt. We sat close to each other, her hair was shimmering, I could almost taste it. Saturday night it was. "You beautiful". But there was no sincerity between us, no intention. Just life. There and then. Hers and mine.

Summer had wrapped itself up. Long gone. Her hands were still warm, moist, from the hours before. The last sun beams reflecting the glasses, purple diamond wine, the deepest colour of despair. Lipmarks on the glasses, small rays of wine had found their way down the foot. They've been there, near her skin, near her breath, close to her warmth.

She repeated my name in every sentence. It was the way she spelled it out, making me conscious of her voice, her softnesses and hardnesses, of her distinct way of placing her hand beside mine. My name couldn't possibly fit something as remarkable as she. "No please, do not. Say not."

She would lean on my shoulder, sighing and yawning. I would tell her more of my lies, fabricating excitements, journeys to other worlds, to parallell universes. She would get me all worked up just by revealing her wide open eyes, her exposed position. And the heat would come to us, place a thin layer of steam on the inside of the dirty windows. (She later said it was the wine, she couldn't resist the deep red colour, it made her weary. But she was wrong, she had the lies on her tongue as well, fooling me with the innocence of her appearance.)