Eugenia Ivanissevich

"Somewhere, it joins the edge of the continent, Deauville.
I find myself facing this immense beach. It is so long that looking for the sea makes me tired.
I go towards it like a child who doesn't understand distance or time.
Tuesday, 6 am, I get up. The evening meal and the cheerful conversation of the guests have woken me from my dreamy sleep; insomnia has pushed me towards the beach. The jockeys on their horses are already there, teasing the waves at sunrise. Images flash before me.
Shyly, under the clouds, umbrellas are sleeping too. What secrets do you keep? What is going on in each fold of your thick pewter-pink fabric? Big silent houses in winter? Inns of love stories in summer? Stories of folds, sanded bodies and closed windows.
A small grimace escapes from the tip of my pillow. She stole the sheets from me and I was cold."