A kiss with two fingers between us, untouched you and me.

A summer night. There was always a foreigner with a radio by the seaside. I didn't know if our words were getting through to each other or not, but I was always listening to that person's stories beside them. His radio played fluent English. It played words from a distant country across the sea. Jealous, I reached out my hand to him, wanting him to turn toward me. This is a submission for Arima Hyouen's "Eighth Moon Cake Project."