...Will you stand by me against the cold night/Or are you afraid of the ice/Ice....
Shampoo with scent of sunshine, hair drips cool down my back as I drive.
"Listen to that," Lisa says.
What?
"Can you hear it?
No.
"Neither can I. The kids are playing quietly. This never happens when Jesse is home."
Jesse makes noise to reassure himself that he exists.
Her coffee is deep as canyons, rich as loam. Velvet caffine slides around my mouth.
I watch Michael Kirby, streetpainter, work pastel chalks into tromp l'oei ephemera.
I regret I won't see the finished work. He promises to be at Artscape.
Crack The Sky is wonderful in their almost-acoustic show. I dislike standing for hours on concrete in Foolish Shoes, but this is the Recher, and that's how it is. I dislike standing near people whose insignificant IQs are significantly reduced by their consumption of beer. However, I love this band, and have been doing so for twenty five years.
He strokes the length of my loose ponytail between his fingers, knuckles grazing the slope of my behind. It could almost be accidental.
I leave with my ears blessedly not ringing. Have I gotten old? I think I've gotten old.
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