Wednesday, September 7, 2011


Mike wished for vacation.  He needed one.  Distance, from “industry” angst.  And, from that car.  He didn’t want to think about it.  Happy to hurl his head into sequestering sand, salut’.  He sipped what was left from last night’s Syrah, last glass.  Struggling for ease, Equilibrium.  Syrah contact, slow, swift to lips.  He imagined himSelf in Paris, at one of innumerable tables viewing animated streets.  He would just write, enjoy his wine.  Alone.  He needed away.  Or, Kelly could with him, escaped, escaping frenzying obligatory tumults.  They’d both been there before; the cafés, wine stores, metro station eateries.  She, for a truly protracted residency.  He, only a week.  Mike imagined her showing him around the city, spots he missed in his only expedition.  He imagined Her translating, so he was spared deaf isolation, or any uneasiness.  She would more than likely avoid being loudly informative, as to not protrude as an American know-it-all.  That’s how Mike saw Her; Humble, Human.  She would still want to see what she didn’t see in her initial mission, but include him, see if all sounded interesting.  They were both curious creatures, so block meandering was expected, by both, of the other.
He sipped his Syrah again, as the track decrescendo’d from his moment’s sense.   He woke, to his Santa Rosa Yulupa Avenue-moored writing desk.  He knew everything would be fine.  He’d write his next vacation, if he wasn’t able to go with any contiguity.  OR, he’d write himSelf to it.  Away.  Another paced wine pulse, settling.  Was she awake right now, he wondered.  Should he call her?  Send a note, through some electronically convivial avenue?  Text her?  No.  What would that do, he realized.  He needed to keep her, the thoughts of her, his fancied gem emblem, about the pages‘ lines.  He saw nothing wrong with it, as it was only fiction.  He thought.  He wasn’t sure, so how would a reader react?  If she were to read his sheets... he didn’t want to think about it.  He sipped again.  Empty.  Through his furrows shot the Syrah.  He hoped it would scribble some sense.  For him, Her, all, till vacation.    
9/7/11, Wednesday    

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