Her thoughts were freckled every time she visited that city. It began with the heat of the day that tired even the dust around and it ended stretching to the jazzy nights. That city was like a quantum grid in her brain that was tirelessly in motion. Its shape was changed every time she visited. She was biased in every road she took, over and over, repetitively like in captivity. That city had a strange effect on her, almost a cocktail of beauty and ugliness, a battlefield between the grotesque and simplicity.

It was not often that she visited that place. Every time they faced each other it seemed they traveled in opposite directions. She grew older and the city grew younger. Although she definitely argued that mentally she was more stable. The city constantly advertised itself as having the prettiest girls, best cafe, and the most imaginary gossip, which they called it “therapeutic”. It also had a bad relation with electricity since it came and went as it pleased, although strangely the wireless connection had invaded the entire city. Houses under construction were scattered everywhere on both sides of the road. The green was scarcely around, orphaned, not as powerful as the dirt. It wasn’t that much the view that impressed her rather it was the smell. There was a particular smell that triggered her memory and it was the strangest one. That city perfumed like the burned milk.

Groups of girls would scatter around the city, feeling careless, like the characters in the gossip underground. She happened to randomly be with such group one night. Although she barely knew any of them the conformity made her feel spontaneously welcomed. Nature seemed to have caressed the girls with an innate beauty. Femininity was a binding component, while fragile sensitivity seemed to be detected occasionally in their uncensored conversation. The rebellious attitude was present at times when mixed with cocktails of soft drinks.

She herself didn’t drink. Her mind rather collected a visual attention of moment-by-moment throughout the evening. Suddenly the serendipity of her first love became present. It must have been something unconsciously that had triggered her thoughts, and she liked the feeling. Her mind recalled moments she thought had entirely forgotten. Time was transitory, like her, it left for never to return. It would have been impossible for her to feel otherwise, but still believed like then that love was worth of anyone’s attention. In her mind, he was seating in front of her. She recognized the same features as if they were left untouched generously fortified by years. It was a residue of her long-term memory. A perfect mile to travel inside her head. She had no nostalgia but memories were enough to satisfy her momentum.

What attracts or repel a person many years later even in absence? she casually asked.

Only memories, or just the cultivated perception. Maybe was the sophistication of the language that triggered her to fly with her mind somewhere. Her thinking became erotic, not so sexually aroused but rather aesthetically. She called it an intellectual orgasm as satisfying as a riddle that left her speechless. The serendipity of her thoughts satisfied her imagination. By the midnight, she felt she had a comfortable recollection of the moments with others around her, while her thoughts were scattered like freckles upon her skin.