Terrapin
There is a dark spot on the wall over her bed. At first it looks like smoke damage, but as his eyes focus he can see that it's hands. Dozens of left hands pressed against the wall for balance as they fuck. The lube picks up little bits of dirt from the unwashed sheets and stamps them, like a Rorshack mandala, or like the walls of a jail cell.
It's a weird night, but the air is lovely.
He sneaks out for a smoke. The neighbors never used to care about him, sitting on the steps in his undies, desperately puffing away. It's all families now, and he catches the eye of a young blonde, closing the drapes in disgust. They never used to care about him at all. He adjusts himself and stares at trees. The wind pries at the lids of his eyes and crawls up his legs.
He's having an Is that all there is? moment, and tries to remember the lyrics to the old Peggy Lee song.
Fuck it.
In his bag, he's got a couple beers, but they're all warm. So fuck it. He's got a soda but he's saving it for work tomorrow and it's too late for soda anyhow, so fuck it. He's got a leather case full of cds, but all he wants to listen to is reggae or the gangsta rap he listened to when he was twelve. So fuck it. He's got a phone inside, he thinks about the numbers that he doesn't have, for people he doesn't call anymore. It's nice to think about the people, but he doesn't have the numbers, so fuck it.
He thinks about the girl inside. She only talks about her nightmares. Given her disposition, they happen less frequently than you'd think, but maybe that is her disposition. She's stronger than dreams. She scares drunks and vagrants, and spirits on the street, but maybe she just has a mean face. He wonders what she dreams about the rest of the time.
She's depressed and so is he. At least he thinks he is, but maybe he should ask. They're at a stalemate.
The smoke makes his forehead itch. He thinks he's allergic, but he's also stubborn. He needs pants. And socks. And shoes. He needs to do something. Quick, if he's going to do anything at all.
On some nights, there are no adventures.
Listening: Various Artists - Back from the Grave, Vol. 2
It's a weird night, but the air is lovely.
He sneaks out for a smoke. The neighbors never used to care about him, sitting on the steps in his undies, desperately puffing away. It's all families now, and he catches the eye of a young blonde, closing the drapes in disgust. They never used to care about him at all. He adjusts himself and stares at trees. The wind pries at the lids of his eyes and crawls up his legs.
He's having an Is that all there is? moment, and tries to remember the lyrics to the old Peggy Lee song.
Fuck it.
In his bag, he's got a couple beers, but they're all warm. So fuck it. He's got a soda but he's saving it for work tomorrow and it's too late for soda anyhow, so fuck it. He's got a leather case full of cds, but all he wants to listen to is reggae or the gangsta rap he listened to when he was twelve. So fuck it. He's got a phone inside, he thinks about the numbers that he doesn't have, for people he doesn't call anymore. It's nice to think about the people, but he doesn't have the numbers, so fuck it.
He thinks about the girl inside. She only talks about her nightmares. Given her disposition, they happen less frequently than you'd think, but maybe that is her disposition. She's stronger than dreams. She scares drunks and vagrants, and spirits on the street, but maybe she just has a mean face. He wonders what she dreams about the rest of the time.
She's depressed and so is he. At least he thinks he is, but maybe he should ask. They're at a stalemate.
The smoke makes his forehead itch. He thinks he's allergic, but he's also stubborn. He needs pants. And socks. And shoes. He needs to do something. Quick, if he's going to do anything at all.
On some nights, there are no adventures.
Listening: Various Artists - Back from the Grave, Vol. 2
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home