| dewy decimal |
2004-01-13 - 6:03 a.m.
A cactus in the corner, and a word to be had in the other room. The room with the hanging plants and suspended kites. The room that gets the most sunlight yet is the most chilly in November.
We were told to mind the hour. But we found ourselves coloring in the browns of our eyes instead, arranging photos, and crushing cans.
As the knot in my throat rolled itself deeper and my hands trembled in your wool gloves, the fish in the tank swam round their ceramic castle. And as far as they were concerned things were the same, the same.
The black iron framing of the house seemed to be penetrating the space for some reason. For some reason, other than a word. Otherwise, the evening felt white and green, lolling and breezy too.
The smell of the new carpet made you play songs on your boom box with the cassette player that doesn't work; promising tunes with strong melodies. I couldn't help but sing along with the parts I knew. That night, you sang along too.
"I'm going to the supermarket for long grain rice and that fucked up dressing you like so much," moving toward your keys.
"Rocket pops too, please," I said. Beyond the cactus, the words were left to be had and the fishies swim around.
As you left, the door shuts and I stood staring where I last saw you at the doorway but only slightly downward.
Then I called my side fuck and we oofed before you got home with my rocket pops. You boring motherfucker.