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( no idea where these came from - this writing style is strange. Too much Block, i'd say. e w e ;; )
untitled.
It is two a.m. in Naples and the city is just barely coming alive, humming with proclamations of love and sex and war; above them the sky is inky, like night, like death, rebirth. Around them lights on strings bob, twisted around the spires of balconies, round little worlds of buttery glow. The smell of smoke and the ocean spray is heavy in the air, the ocean a magnet, a driving force; he knows that it is where she's headed, dark skirt in need of adjustment and hair hanging limp in the bun it was tucked into hours ago.
The sea is their home, their birth and resting place, familiar as a simpler rythym, a plie or a rond de jambe or relevé, as tomatoes and pasta and sunlight. Running in, barrelling out, burying their toes in the sand and scrambling for balance as it clears their platforms away. He wonders what will happen this time - she's so drunk she could stand on her tiptoes in the middle of an alley and let a motorist pass through her and she wouldn't notice a thing. He knows, though, she doesn't like what the city of thieves has to offer, would rather indulge in Spain. I lost my head in Barcelona, one day a flag proclaimed. She saw it and laughed, pointed it out and said I wouldn't have it any other way.
that old dustland romance
The road ahead is dusty and good for nothing more than kicking up a desert when driving through. In all other circumstances, it'd be a depressing symbol of his life, but those circumstances include a guy who bothers with deep thinking; he'd rather ponder ladybugs, the pond near their home, the tomatoes. He has memorized this path, and confidently folds his arms behind his head and whistles as he saunters the last stretch towards school, late, as he always is on these days. His brother, everybody else, insist on leaving early, the bus is stinky and hot and walking is good for the soul; he would rather wait and enjoy the midmorning sunshine on the days he feels good about, would rather be late and receive nothing more than a stern look and no dip for his bread at dinner as punishment. These moments are too delicious, this almost-solitude and perfect weather, if he's lucky, a breeze brushing by and giving him a quick hug. Almost all is right with the world, when one day she calls out.
He asks, why are you here? This isn't your home. She laughs, says something about foreign exchange, magic in the air. No matter how he looks at her she is a friend, so he offers up the space beside him and manages to remain cool as she says, don't mind if I do. Over the days she doesn't stop coming, is blood from a nick on his face from shaving with the old razor by accident; he slowly gets used to her presence, even looks forward to it. He can learn to eat his bread without dip, and she can handle whatever punishment she is or isn't receiving. They stop and take their time every day, school nonexistent. What could matter more than a dinosaur track in the Spanish dirt, an old wine bottle arranged just so, a hat abandoned like an annoying puppy, bugs marching towards their artificial suicide?
Gradually he learns he is losing himself in her ocean eyes, has stopped being so afraid of them. When she sings he leans forward and listens, he can't see the faces of anyone else, especially his own - but what would be on it? Curiosity? Admiration? When she writes her full name she sings the alphabet, so softly she must think it's to herself, but unbeknownst she has an avid fan behind her, unconsciously leaning in for that splash of her fragrance, pencil shavings and mystery and everything he suddenly wants to fathom.
 men getting pregnant · Mon Nov 23, 2009 @ 06:43am · 1 Comments |
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