“See the pyramids along the Nile,” and you’ll see how easily the desert swallows a man’s sins. Watching the moon behind the Great Pyramid. The air was thick like jasmine curling from her cigarette. Speaking to me, Philip Morris, as she stood in the shadows, a silhouette on the balcony. Her profile bleeding, separating her flesh from the soul in ad nauseam. The timber of her cigarette pulsing like a midnight star, the kind that burns brighter before it dies. “But no time for angels tonight.” When insanity is to blame. Her voice from memories, of long time ago. “You remember Istanbul,” she said, not a question but an accusation. Her fingers tapped the balcony railing—once, twice—each tap syncing with the distant call to prayer from some unseen minaret. The ash from her cigarette drifted down, disappearing into the darkness below like the last of my good intentions. “You remember Istanbul,” she repeated, softer now, as if tasting his formaldehyde-laced lips again. Her smile like a guillotine’s promise, digging up graves we’d sworn to leave buried. “You still owe me,” she murmured. “Not money. Something worse.” The call to prayer faded into the hum of Cairo’s sleepless streets below, “as the scythe swung.”
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Moon Behind Pyramid
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This is an awesome, interesting read. I love the little details snuck in, too. Phillip Morris, as an example.
Clever, as your usual.
Thank you, Styxian.