Imitation

A full moon, nothing concealed.
A sedan marking its territory through the unmasked plains, nothing stopped. A road unending. Opera playing, and it sounds like being suffocated, arms flailing, the surface just out of reach. The headlights bright, encircling the boundaries. The woods seem to conceal. The pace in sync with the resonant tone; the walls contain, and the opera allures.
The engine cuts. The radiator fans hum their quiet exhale. A creature of nature on his turf, but something innate in it doesn't want to be.
He gets out of his car.

Photo by Mikita Karasiou on Unsplash

Briefcase in hand, upright, he scans the path that leads away from the road. The lights left open, the door closed, he steps off the road and makes his trail. A route known to no eyes but his own, through woods he is familiar with. He looks back and sees the overwhelming darkness, and at the center of it, light nexusing from the car.

The table set, an atmosphere of chuckle and glee, the popping, the cheers, clinks as the glasses meet. Watching. Cataloguing. The laughter sounds distant to him; a mere imitation of a chuckle leaves his face.
No clocking at all. Faces melt, adhering to the optimal ones. The grin holds, the booze deepens, and not a single eye finds him.

Photo by Mikita Karasiou on Unsplash

His eyes shine. Drops creep, tendons widening into a smile stretched deeply. Briefcase on the soil, damped, smelling clean. The case opened and laid flat, its interior neat and clean. A spirit, a celebratory one, not the fancy kind. It looks contained, made. A champagne with no cover but a cork.
Two glasses beside it.
He holds a scent in his hand.

The feet move slowly forward, a little back, the radius increases. The shoes tap and the radius finds no boundaries. He rushes, a hurry to illuminate.
The moon witnesses a macabre, quiet and disorganized. The aroma all over the coat, all over his skin.

Entry for the contest: "The Keyword of the Week" / WETTBEWERB: "Das Schlüsselwort der Woche"t

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