Monday, January 24, 2005

So the next week comes . . .

The happy hour starts slowly as the dancers filter in from work, the men usually there first, the women taking the time to go home and prepare themselves, and the couples usually meeting up before coming in together. Most of the time even the band assembles itself slowly. The freeway traffic or the job impeding their progress towards the night's playing time. Sometimes the summer day, daylight saving time in place, makes it hard to come inside. Still, it's the dancing that draws, and the contact that passes for friendship, or relationship, or communitas. The dancing that I know I don't want to take so seriously that I forget that keeping it casual and lightly connected is what has always made this work for me. It's when I forget that that things go bad, get rough, and life like a boat on the sea can capsize on me.

So the next week comes and I'm still hearing that light laugh, seeing her eyes, in my mind my thoughts are scrabbling around like rats in a maze hot on the the scent of cheese. And now it is time for happy hour.

Saturday, January 15, 2005

She had eyes of light and I . . .

In the parking lot, I checked to see that my car was still unlocked and opened the trunk. But this was just to save time. I had to think. What the hell, so she had lights in her eyes, something else was at work here. The age old need to travel a different road. Shit, I slammed down the trunk lid and instead moved up to the passenger door and opened it. In the glove compartment I found what I needed. My last joint. Ironically, I needed to clear my head.

Tuesday, January 11, 2005

It's been a while...

She comes into my arms and I do mean that to sound like it sounds. Because before I can stop myself I half groan half sigh, and she laughs. We are melting together like hot fudge on vanilla ice cream. Melding together like a fan of playing cards in a gambler's hands. We can't stop the osmosis of heat, can't tell which is sending which the receipt. Damn, I have to go, can't stand this . . . even as we keep responding to the beat.