futile attempts at literary genius

He felt a little guilty drinking the coffee. His last couple of dollars, and he used them to help Starbucks spread the empire. Funded the building of one across the street from this one, perhaps. No, he knew they were actually closing stores. But the guilt did not subside, since it was more guilt that he had spent money on himself.

The slightly bitter cup always gave comfort, though. When he felt down, he had some coffee and things seemed flufflier. Maybe he thought if he drank enough this troubles would turn into clouds and mosey by with the breeze. Life would be much simpler were that true, he though taking another gulp. But no, it’s not and life’s more complicated than that.

He decided there wasn’t enough sugar in this cup to make them go away. Not enough in the world.

She hated the cicadas. They drover her insane with their buzzing all day long. Like one of those old movies about giant insects, they sang to her. She knew it was only to annoy her. Why else would they be doing it? It pentrated the sanctum of her apartment, and she could not stop it. Windows, curtains, and doors were all closed and still it would persist. An opcean of sound, ebbing and flowing, ebbing and flowing, and making her wish she had a tiny gun with enough bullets to personally hold it to the head of each and every one of them and end their lives in a fit of genocidal mass murder.

She’d probably get a medal if she could.

Cool air permeated the region, bringing a sharpness not at all unpleasant. It wasn’t really cold, just cool, but not enough to warrant more than a long sleeved shirt. The pool below glowed, spouting water high in the air from several places. The view was quite nice from the second floor, the lack of the moon this early adding to the atmosphere of calm and beautiful.

Mike leaned on the railing of the balcony, cigarette in one hand and wine glass within reach of the other. He could still taste the sweet and tart left behind by his last sip when he inhaled deeply. Arms wrapped around him from behind, bringing with them Armani perfume and breath on his neck. His body reacted with tingles up and down his spine.

“I missed you” she told him, a slight southern tint to her words.

“I missed you, too” smiling, head tilting onto hers in a very loose interpretation of what a hug is. “The view is nicer than you made it sound”

He turned to give her a real hug, chin on her head, Armani and desire filling his nose. Their faces met a moment later. She tasted like wine.

A hand on a chest. Legs intertwined. Lips ensnared. Flesh hot. Gasps for air. Sweat. Elation.

I kiss a girl who tastes like wine. Her lips pressing against mine, bringing heat and dry sweetness, linger long enough for me to miss them when they’ve gone. Hand in hand in the cool spring air, cigarette smoke drifting between us, there is always the wine. It’s become a soundtrack to our meeting, always in the background but invisible until you think about it. She tastes of wine and smells like Armani, but feels like home.

I realised, then, that much of my life revolved around coffee and rain. I sat, cup from Starbucks (not MY Starbucks, though I’d been to this one before I was nowhere near a regular) in my left hand to keep a Pall Mall company, my right hand on the knee of and underneath my date. I was smiling, as the rain fell down, occassionally blowing in under what little roof we were afforded.

(Maybe I’m not completely done after all, though now I will be paranoid at my newest readership.)

The truth hurts. I suck at this writing thing. I’m done now. Thanks for all the fish.

I can see him in my mirror
The man I used to be
Screaming, ranting, banging
Trying to get free
Haunting every thought
With sick perversions
Twisting the world into
Things I shouldn’t see
Making me wonder
Which me is truest
The one I project or
The one caged up inside

(Sara has no idea just how many of our conversations are adapted for this blog. In fact, she’s never read this blog and will never know. Names are not changed to protect the innocent, because none of the involved parties are very innocent.)

Snow was falling, cold and wet, all around. The view was beautiful, but the cold always made me consider quitting smoking. Of course, I never have but I’ve given the matter great consideration as I do now, fingers numb and white, nose cold and drippy.

‘So is it wrong that I’m fucking his friend?’ Sara asked me, umbrella shielding her from the flakes and smoke puffing out with each syllable intertwined with steamy breath. She seemed unusually cheerful, considering the breakup had her devestated a few days back. Perhaps it was her cold, which forced to inhale sharply to clear her nose of phlegm, that was distracting her.

‘That’s extremely sexy right there, you know.’

‘I’m sorry! I didn’t even think.’

‘I’m used to it, being a total nonissue. But anyways, no that’s fine. Are you doing it to get back at JD?’

‘Yeah, totally out of spitefulness.’

‘It’s good sex at least, right?’

‘Well, it’s very… I don’t know… humpy.’

‘Humpy?’ the word meaning clear of course, but only because of the root hump, or rather the verb humping, which is also another way of saying “to fuck”. Never heard it ike that before, though.

‘Yeah. It’s just very… ‘ her hips thrusted to and fro very quickly for a second ‘.. You know? I mean it’s.. humpy.’

‘Okay, like “let’s hurry, cause my mom’s going to be home any minute” kind of sex? Like when you’re 16?’

‘Yeah. Course, he was drunk both times, so I can give him some slack.’

‘Sounds like he’s been giving you slack. Honestly, drunk or not, I can’t think of a time I’ve been “humpy” in years. I’ve never been THAT drunk.’

‘Well, third time’s a charm. The guy’s had experience, I mean he’s a bartender and owner, attractive, and probably slept with a lot of women.’

‘But how many repeat customers? Maybe they all left and straightening their skirts though “Well. That was very… humpy” and never returned.’

She laughed.

It never failed. He had his utensil and paper, but something about a sketch pad made it impossible to actually do that. He felt pressure to be profound, talented, and interesting when he had the sketch pad in front of him. Opened and blank, the mini canvas begging to be given it’s tattoo. Pen hovered dangerously close, mere centimeters from the surface, shaking and begging to be used.

He brought the other hand to his face, fingers caressing his beard, palm covering his mouth. What to draw? He moved the pen a little, adding marks here and there, then scribbling them over angrily. He wasn’t that great to begin with.

He knew people were watching him from nearby tables, idly glancing over to see the artist at work between sips of coffee and bits of conversation about the current election, war, and American Idol. The bastards mocked him when they did. What did they want from him? He was no artist, he just liked to doodle sometimes, but somebody bought him this damned sketch pad as a birthday gift. He had accepted gladly, normally using scraps at work and hoping the different medium would give him new inspiration.

But his pen did not move on that compressed pulp.