short story: 12 o’clock

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.
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