hands stuffed in the bottom pockets of jeans, hair battle against the sea wind, she shuffled down a dirty alley leading to the murky bar of 4 friends. She did not know the 4 lads schoolboy whose head gave his name only reference to Pirates of corn. Pirates came out of nowhere. Going nowhere. Not even out at sea But who Picolit during the day and part of the night sea, telling of the adventures of imaginary fishermen never returned.
- Hi beautiful. Always the same?
She nodded, golden curls sweeping the troubled waters of his eyes, vast oceans, where some sailors had ventured and had sunk. Their spirit was still floating somewhere on the tray of a failed life, where the skies would more stars.
boss brought the usual glass. As a ritual.
- What you got, the beautiful, still drinking the same? Do not you have enough to drink the blood of sailors?
She said nothing. She hardly spoke. The siren had taken over a shell in his body. Fishing nets strangle so loud when tangled.
She drank a coup. His hand fumbled the bottom of the jeans. She released some biffetons and looked at his fingers: the Navy had left moisture indigo indelible traces on his fingers. She rubbed. Nothing helped. Then his angel voice, light as a song, ordered the guy behind the counter:
- Well the dude ... Still a blood mary.
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