Tristan Eve: A Short Story

The car drove in a smooth engine, when it left the quiet and still outskirt, and headed off toward the highway. From the rear car window, Trey saw the sight of the facility hid behind the dense tree which filtering out the sunshine, gradually subsided, and disappeared into a deserted street. He turned, sank into the car seat, and wrapped his arms around his body as if to embrace himself.

There’s an invisible distance between him and his mother, the intense awkwardness as a result of the 3-month absence of communication. Trey can sense her mother’s feeling guilty for locking him in the facility, detaching him from his normal life as a 17-years-old high school student, and to some extent, had accused him of being insane.

“I don’t know why

He’s now slouching on the white sofa; head wrapped in a head scarf, maroon patterned silk robe sweeping off the floor, and his limber finger playing with the artificial fire which flaming gently in the fireplace. He couldn’t help himself talking about the trick to applying color in the clothes he designed. Because you may not let anyone glimpsed past the window of your soul, which according to him is your clothes, that’s why he made the topic somewhat sounded very crucial.

“I understand wholeheartedly how people crave to add their depth, to bring out their color, or to strengthen their nuance. So they come to me, in the hope to fix their style, their panache. The truth is it’s all a matter of carving illusion, sometimes only a trick of the light. The entire concept of my fashion based on a complex illusion of illumination.”

“You’re beginning to sound like a circus magician,” said Adie, resisting her temptation to stretch her legs and slouch. Her eyes numerously glanced at the elevator door. “Why Trey hasn’t showed up?” she whispered.

“No, Love. No, I don’t,” Tristan waved his hand that his wide sleeve flickered against the air. “I never even declare myself as a fashion