On Arlesian's streets
Arles is discrete, paved, narrow, colourful and burning hot in summer. A girl is walking on the streets in a yellow dress. It's morning. You're walking from paving stone to paving stone. The streets smell of orange blossom. The branches of the fig trees are heavy with fruits. You fill your lungs with the heady scents of jasmine and wisteria.
When the sweat will start dripping on your shirt, you'll stop by for an ice cream, after the creamery. Hazelnut and chocolate if you're craving the heaviness of milk, or maybe strawberry and lemon to cool down.
Later, the sun will finally retire from the sky, himself tired with providing this much energy, and we will even consider putting on a light vest or a stole, even though it won't be really necessary. We will meet in a café, the air will be soft. You will talk about getting up for a walk but somehow the last drink will become the second-to-last drink, third-to-last, and only when the café will close, we will marvel at how fast the time goes, and we will leave, laughing at time, that we didn't see passing by.
For now, the air is still full of it's hundreds of possibilities, and the corner of your mouth are slowly lifting as you walk through the streets, your heels clicking on the cobblestones, and she's just a girl, in a yellow dress.