“Look at the twilight…”
Look at the twilight.
“I, I think there’s a baby somewhere. No, we had only begun to talk about it. We’d take a vacation first. Make plans over bashful drinks (whose) gaze (is) hidden by tiny umbrellas. What did we do when we got back? Fight probably. Is it wrong to keep the umbrellas in a cigar box full of letters from someone else? Or can all fits of passion eventually be filed under heartache?”
She had a series of nick-names. Her real name was all vowels. Vowels which stuck up like sticks and rocks to trip the tongue.
Her appeal to me wasn’t my loneliness. She had been too busy scheming to notice, and that was it.
She squeezed me. One of my legs between the two of hers. If you manage to get up while the entire city is still sleeping the sound of a distant train from childhood can be heard. Sad magic.
It was with this in mind that she woke me.
Forgetting her motivation she almost immediately ruins it by talking. I get up to get a drink. On the refrigerator a calendar. No names, just times and streets. For anyone that cared, only half a life revealed.
I was very superstitious. The pope of broken mirrors and black thirteen’s. If she would break potentially boring plans for me, who knew how long I was from finding myself having drinks with an empty chair.
Something was needed. Something with which to end a scene, starting a new one.
She was sitting on the couch now. It took her great effort to appear unaware of what she was showing. Pale pink petals of a man eating flower.
I leaned forward to whisper a kiss. Her tongue darted madly around my mouth, searching for words I hadn’t used.
“I’m taking a shower.”
I tried to time the opening of the medicine cabinet which creaked, with the closing of the door.
Out on the couch she shut her eyes and lazily smiled. Her finger tips tracing figure eights as she thinks of that hat she will get him to buy her.
Dead cloud of cold creme in my palm, I close my eyes and think of a story I once wrote.