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dotintheskyMove with you, move against you. Sarah thinks.
Put your hands on me, put them on me. Adrien thinks.
The storm lies outside. They hide in the photo booth, like children from a fairy tale escaping the monsters that wish to capture them. The photo booth is tiny, with its round red seat that you can spin up or down, and white walls made of plastic. Someone has scrawled above the camera's dark window Avril was here. Sarah sits on Adrien's lap. They stare at the black windowpane, the camera's cover. At any moment a flashlight could flood their hideaway, capture Adrien's hands stroking Sarah's hair; bursts of light filling his face so she may see better where her lips must go. They are not in America, but they can hear Frank Sinatra played in the deserted shopping arcade.
I like his arms, I like his hair wet from the rain. Sarah thinks.
She didn't have to bring me here, she can kiss me whenever she wants. Adrien thinks.
They don't know how long the photo booth has been abandoned in the shopping arcade. They must have walked past it a million times, and always seen it empty. It's old, it shakes when Sarah tickles Adrien and he hits his back against the flimsy walls. A burst of light interrupts their embrace. They laugh, knowing the booth has come alive by itself, for them. Sarah sticks her tongue out. Adrien bites his, eyes shut to some imaginary pain. The flashbulb attacks. She can see the piercing through her tongue, reflected in the dark photo pane like a lighthouse in the rain.
Some boys take a girl and hide her from the rest of the world. Sarah thinks.
When the day is done, I just want to have fun. Adrien thinks.
He holds her face, leans towards her neck so he may rest. He holds her body tightly. The flashes are over. The machine begins to shake, creating the minutes just gone by. Liquid spurts in its machinery and covers the exposed paper. Hot air dries their pale faces, imprisoned forever in the camera's tiny eye. Sarah strokes his hair, kisses his left ear gently. Their bodies shake to some unlistenable hum. With the curtains closed, they pretend there is no world outside except the rain, the cold, the desolate arcade, and the scent of decay that rises from the shut down clothes stores. And Frank Sinatra, returning, louder than God, telling all young lovers to not forget New York.
He doesn't have my phone number. Sarah thinks.
Where will I take her when the rain stops? Adrien asks himself.
The rain's beat intensifies, drowns good ol' Frank. The roar of bursting drains reaches them, and the shouts of people trying to escape the rising flood that will take their cars; the surge of water that will bring havoc into the shopping arcade. Sarah and Adrien feel their toes grow wet: water laps against the photo booth's floor. They lift their legs and press them against the plastic walls - they can't help looking at each other and laughing.
I want the photo booth to float away. Sarah thinks.
I want the photo booth to float away. Adrien thinks.
Somebody pulls the curtains open and screams: "Get out! Go home!" A haggard man, dressed in a yellow uniform, fumes at them: the shopping arcade's janitor. Sarah notices a nametag on his uniform's breast jacket; Adrien reads it: "Guillaume Joubert - Senior Janitor". They slide off each other, slip away from the booth. Their steps form ever-expanding circles in the water-covered hallways. Their hands never quite touch as they run into the rain again.
Put your hands on me, put them on me. Adrien thinks.
The storm lies outside. They hide in the photo booth, like children from a fairy tale escaping the monsters that wish to capture them. The photo booth is tiny, with its round red seat that you can spin up or down, and white walls made of plastic. Someone has scrawled above the camera's dark window Avril was here. Sarah sits on Adrien's lap. They stare at the black windowpane, the camera's cover. At any moment a flashlight could flood their hideaway, capture Adrien's hands stroking Sarah's hair; bursts of light filling his face so she may see better where her lips must go. They are not in America, but they can hear Frank Sinatra played in the deserted shopping arcade.
I like his arms, I like his hair wet from the rain. Sarah thinks.
She didn't have to bring me here, she can kiss me whenever she wants. Adrien thinks.
They don't know how long the photo booth has been abandoned in the shopping arcade. They must have walked past it a million times, and always seen it empty. It's old, it shakes when Sarah tickles Adrien and he hits his back against the flimsy walls. A burst of light interrupts their embrace. They laugh, knowing the booth has come alive by itself, for them. Sarah sticks her tongue out. Adrien bites his, eyes shut to some imaginary pain. The flashbulb attacks. She can see the piercing through her tongue, reflected in the dark photo pane like a lighthouse in the rain.
Some boys take a girl and hide her from the rest of the world. Sarah thinks.
When the day is done, I just want to have fun. Adrien thinks.
He holds her face, leans towards her neck so he may rest. He holds her body tightly. The flashes are over. The machine begins to shake, creating the minutes just gone by. Liquid spurts in its machinery and covers the exposed paper. Hot air dries their pale faces, imprisoned forever in the camera's tiny eye. Sarah strokes his hair, kisses his left ear gently. Their bodies shake to some unlistenable hum. With the curtains closed, they pretend there is no world outside except the rain, the cold, the desolate arcade, and the scent of decay that rises from the shut down clothes stores. And Frank Sinatra, returning, louder than God, telling all young lovers to not forget New York.
He doesn't have my phone number. Sarah thinks.
Where will I take her when the rain stops? Adrien asks himself.
The rain's beat intensifies, drowns good ol' Frank. The roar of bursting drains reaches them, and the shouts of people trying to escape the rising flood that will take their cars; the surge of water that will bring havoc into the shopping arcade. Sarah and Adrien feel their toes grow wet: water laps against the photo booth's floor. They lift their legs and press them against the plastic walls - they can't help looking at each other and laughing.
I want the photo booth to float away. Sarah thinks.
I want the photo booth to float away. Adrien thinks.
Somebody pulls the curtains open and screams: "Get out! Go home!" A haggard man, dressed in a yellow uniform, fumes at them: the shopping arcade's janitor. Sarah notices a nametag on his uniform's breast jacket; Adrien reads it: "Guillaume Joubert - Senior Janitor". They slide off each other, slip away from the booth. Their steps form ever-expanding circles in the water-covered hallways. Their hands never quite touch as they run into the rain again.
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no subject
on 2003-09-26 08:50 am (UTC)*bijou bijou*
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no subject
on 2003-09-26 09:16 am (UTC)no subject
on 2003-09-26 12:50 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2003-09-27 04:16 am (UTC)*pulls Morgane's hair and runs away*
no subject
on 2003-09-27 09:49 am (UTC)*stamps feet*
*calls for her mom*
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on 2003-09-26 12:08 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2003-09-26 12:12 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2003-09-27 04:14 am (UTC)no subject
on 2003-09-27 04:12 am (UTC):o)
no subject
on 2003-09-26 12:09 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2003-09-27 04:13 am (UTC)