Eve asks:

Once upon a time, there was a long bearded blind old man, two young dogs in leash beside him,
I wonder what it means...

Sour Times - Re Joy

Another day, nice enough for a long walk and he had finally the time. There was a frantic freedom in walking, lightness reverberating all through and there was a new smell in the air today, neighbors burning leaves in their backyard, the fire disseminating their essence:
‘Good morning!’

The adrenaline started working: he found himself humming a song to the beat of his heart, rhythm of his walk (it reminded him of Michael Douglas). When was the last time he felt that way? The rhythm grew faster as he thought of her, her face, her mouth: ‘what’s wrong, baby?’ - a different rhythm, a beautiful day today.

Back in the house she pulled her hair back up with an effort and turned on the TV. The ladies on the ‘V’ discussing elections, talking over each other, 'a vagina dialogue of some sorts’! Suddenly she heard one of them distinctly: 'I don't want to be perceived as semantically incorrect...' The phrase was surprising and her laughter filled the empty room.
'That’s good!' her mood changed, she was breathing easy now.
The room felt cozy and warm, the smell of quince and apples, a jargon of a different time.
She was ready to start working now, at the same computer he worked a few hours ago...she remembered his sunken chest, the pain in his eyes.

Another rainy day when they first met. He touched her hair passing by, the flow of fresh air fed with energy the tiny foils at the back of her neck. 
'I'm Chris, what can I do for you?'
She was waiting to meet with someone else but his smile lowered the pressure in the room and all the aggravation outside, his soft voice confident, no modulations of his trade. 
'Nothing lingering about this man, someone who swims easy through the city's disturbance: I'm Helena, Helena A.’
‘I know!’ he replied. His eyes were dark, brightened with joy.
’Don't look into my soul...not yet’ she prayed, instinctively withdrawing her hand.

- Fragment by Ioana Lostun - Sept. 2008  and 2013

Sour Times - The Call

'After all Helena, you’re not yet a known writer, it’s always about first impressions, readers expect something else from women writers!' – her publicist was not taking it well. 'The reader would rather be enchanted!'
'Some characters are vile indeed but they are also victims.'
'Let’s be reasonable here, I don't even know how to define your writing!'
'Think of black tea, no sugar!'

Left by himself at the table, he snored the remaining lines and stepped into the men’s room: same white towels and there, he remembered the first time he had sex with a man, a team mate in spite of his fears, it gave him a sense of belonging and much needed security: ‘brothers’ they called each other  - when one got the 'call',  all others knew: 'today is the day, let’s make some history!’ - just like the ‘brotherhood of lay’ somebody suggested, dropping it like a can of beans.
They got themselves rings encrusted GIG ‘greed is good’ in gold and diamonds, a motivational gadget;  he looked at his:  ‘What happened to Ethan's? Oh, fuck Ethan, the loser! always a pussy!...I have to go home, I know what’s going on here!’
‘Bye Erick! You take care darling and see you soon!’
‘I’m not coming back to this shithole’ he said to himself, 'shithole' he whispered to the bodyguard in his way out.'

By Ioana Lostun - Sept. 2008 and 2013 - Image 'The Lighthouse" by Ioana