Drabble: the color of grass
Title: the color of grass
Sometimes Nino loses his grip on what it means to live. He works at least twelve hours a day when there is a movie, and there's always movies now. There's also always money coming in, much of it still going to the factory and the wry, creased smile on his grandfather's nut-brown face. Nino doesn't really have time any more to create stories for girls by stepping outside the studio, his breath showing pale white in the slow against his pink lips, trying to catch falling snowflakes. The rate at which the snow falls is too slow against the rate of which Nino needs to do things.
Nino lives in a world of cameras and flashes, make-up brushes and colors of foundation and leather pants and the horrible crackle of the cellophane of the cheap bento boxes when he opens them. As he eats he looks out the window and thinks that maybe he should take Aiba's invitation for golf, next time, or baseball might be better, because Nino can't remember enough to be able to describe the color of grass.
Sometimes Nino loses his grip on what it means to live. He works at least twelve hours a day when there is a movie, and there's always movies now. There's also always money coming in, much of it still going to the factory and the wry, creased smile on his grandfather's nut-brown face. Nino doesn't really have time any more to create stories for girls by stepping outside the studio, his breath showing pale white in the slow against his pink lips, trying to catch falling snowflakes. The rate at which the snow falls is too slow against the rate of which Nino needs to do things.
Nino lives in a world of cameras and flashes, make-up brushes and colors of foundation and leather pants and the horrible crackle of the cellophane of the cheap bento boxes when he opens them. As he eats he looks out the window and thinks that maybe he should take Aiba's invitation for golf, next time, or baseball might be better, because Nino can't remember enough to be able to describe the color of grass.