(akin to Writing While Naked, but different)
"It's been good to walk with you to our cars. You be careful."
"Yes, you drive safe, too, Babe."
If someone has told me her name, I've forgotten it. She doesn't seem to mind me calling her Babe. She walks as though a steel bar holds her hips apart, legs operating on independant parallel planes. I employ my usual Indian step, one foot in front of the other, the one I learned when I learned to walk again. It keeps me slow and deliberate.
I have found that dashing at a half-run through wet streets in Bondage Sandals is not only ill-advised, but impossible. I employ my Indian step, the one that makes Coco say "you look like you're walking an invisible tightwire." And she puts the word "fucking" in there someplace, but I'm not sure of the placement, so I'll leave it out.
I flirt with B. R., (who M.A., a woman I've been crushing on for a week, says is a horny old bastard, and I said, that explains while I like him) and he doesn't much like it when I guess too close to his year of birth. Fourty seven, six, five. Somewhere around there. I help Bev clean up. She sends her love to my "precious jewels."
[Few understand how proud I am of my youngest, who after two lessons, is stilting independantly. Forget multiplication, spelling, civics. Walk stilts. Wear makeup. Bring joy. Go, baby, go.]
I stay longer than I intend, as the rain is heavy and I as usual have forgotten the existance of umbrellas.
The readings of the plays are tolerable, even amusing, though all the actors seem to duplicate themselves under the influence of two glasses of wine that I knock back fast before going into the theater. I sit next to Mr. Showbiz, who loves me, and watch McGraw, who loves me, and in front of K., who at least likes me- she hugged me when I came in, or perhaps she was just happy to see that I'd brought food for the Kickoff party. The rest of the room is polite, though I know I've accidentally sown the seeds of acrimony. I do that a lot, it seems.
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I sling myself through narrow slickered streets of Fells Point (I feel a poem brewing), grooving on warm summer rain. I like the feel of it as it wets my skin. The trick is to get wet enough to feel delicious, but not so wet that my clothing becomes a sodden mass of shivermaker.