Una casa abandonada por el campo afuera de Sevilla.

Plantilla que hice con un amigo de Madrid. Sera dificil a cortar... vamos a ver como pasa.

her

He was standing some distance away, far enough to be a part of the mass, yet close enough to seemingly sense the movement of her hair. He remained unmoving, but only on the exterior. Within him mechanisms millennia old were churning, pulling him back to something older than time, and it was then that those things around him ceased to retain importance. Only the movement of the hair remained, that whiteness showing through the lips of her smile, the blinking of her eyes. These developed themselves into a seething, heaving importance that started in the chest, and seemed to reverberate throughout the room, joining the ambient rhythms while still discordant with them. Something pushed, and yet he resisted. It pushed again, when the time seemed just right. And yet he resisted. Then an explosive shove drove through him, an emanation from within, and he began moving towards her. Fixed upon her all the while, he moved ever slowly and the butterflies were devouring his insides. The music became more intense, the reverberations electrocuting those insides; an electric buzz swam through him. And he was close.
So close to her.
Next to her now.
He pinched himself nervously in a feeble attempt to grasp the realness, the nowness of that situation.
And then he tapped her on the shoulder.