I run my hand over the mossy limestone, admiring the grey patina that seaside storms had etched upon its surface, pitting the rock through years and years of wild weather. Such a simple thing, so full of history. It poked into my hand and left tiny tends and imprints
(more) on my skin. I looked over the tiny marks in wonder and laughed, overjoyed, to see that this ancient thing could leave a mark on me. I was transient. I would pass. This stone would remain long after me, never the same as each day passed, eroding and shifting with the wind. It had left an imprint on me, while I left nothing- nothing visible to the naked eye, anyway- to mark my passage.
Stumbling by me in youthful arrogance, a drunk couple laugh at the crazy woman smiling at the wall. They think I can't hear them, but they brushed past me, bumped my shoulder, and the sudden touch sent electric shocks through my chilled skin. I heard them. I couldn't not hear them. They slurred, they stumbled, they retched into a nearby tree. The girl, clad in tight denim miniskirt and bikini top, sounds like a sewer monster as she heaves into the dirt. She teeters on ill-fitting heels and smells like scented chemicals. The man does nothing to help her, staggering back and forth, waiting and peering around like a delirious zombie.
My gaze returns to the stone. I find myself thankful that we humans cannot leave a mark upon it, as it does on us. What a shameful thing to do, to stain such beauty with such vulgarity, such impudence.
I whisper to the stone that I love it, and apologise, and take my leave.(less)
