PUB SCRAWL

...the way she listens using her fingers to trace figure 8s on the bar top and breathe out fumes of attention.  She tells me she is a writer and I suddenly find her the most attractive constellation in the deep clear, winter's night sky.

A strange and foreign clock ticks away hefty seconds on a wall that refuses to be completely vertical.  The mind has a way of righting things that appear out of place and an awkward silence leads to this.  Then she, leaning in with her soft lips, gives me a kiss.  Wanting and laughing, finding our place in this hard world.  Not forgetting where we were before the invention of the smart phone.  And she takes one last breath and plunges deep into that black pearl of the ocean, lost and yet returned to a home long forgotten.  

More strange thoughts form in the part of the mind where goodness goes to try on little-black-dresses and a darker shade of lipstick.  She will be goodness again tomorrow, but this is her last evening of vacation.  She willingly lets go to a part of the city where doors open to sets of stairs leading down.  Beyond the high windows exists only piles of sand pressed inward like refugees fleeing famine.

She is standing at a microphone, clearing her mind and about to read.  The room is pregnant as her words bring fresh life to it.  We are going somewhere with her, somewhere truly beautiful.