It was an ordinary summer. I was preparing lunch. You were gone at that moment.
The electric stove heated up the chicken soup. Alarm sound rang. I looked at an analog clock. It was noon.
The rice was already cooked.
A girl who lived next door to me loved to read Gabriel García Márquez. I just found out that he was Columbian, not Mexican, and he died at age of 87.
Opposite to my room, it was a cemetery. Every Saturday, many families would carry flowers to pay a visit.
“There is always something left to love.”
A girl next door said. It was a quote from Gabriel García Márquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude.
I ate chicken soup at half past noon.
The lunch was gone.
The bowl was empty.
It was the first lunch, after YU were gone.
20150827: 12 o’clock
dedicated to “6002”, our dearest yet funny.
