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It was cold. Not the kind of gentle, autumnal, light breeze kind of cold. It was the kind of cold that made you lift your collar to block the gusts of wind biting at the nape of your neck and threatening to burst into your ill-fitting (yet quite fashionable) coat and show you what winter was really all about. You’d pull your knit cap down over your ears in an attempt to keep your eardrums from freezing, then shattering at any sharp sound that happened. It wasn’t cold, it was COLD.
The girl helped, keeping him distracted with conversation about attacking hedgehogs, nearly tumbling into deep holes, and just stuff in general. He should have sipped his coffee more slowly before leaving Starbucks, he decided. This coat was not made to keep hands warm in pockets, and his jeans (also fashionable) did not afford much room in the pockets for things besides cell phone and cigarettes. Gloves would be nice to own.
The park, any park, was the destination. Despite the cold they were attempting to make the night last as long as possible. There were no awkward silences, really, but hanging in the air was the dangerous truth of “I fancy you, a bit. Perhaps we should call this a date, and get on with things?” But that seemed unreal, really. So they walked, and talked, and ventured forth into the blustery night leaving things unsaid for the moment.
The park was not much more than a few slides and swings when they arrived. He smoked, they talked, and swinging they came closer to saying that which they did not. Past histories were revealed, details of their lives that may be important should they come clean about feelings. Pains, happy times, and general information regarding bad habits one might have to deal with.
Things blurred together fast, until they found themselves sitting, well more like huddling for warmth. Neither complained of the closeness, and closer they became, physically and mentally and emotionally. It still felt dangerous to him, 10 years her senior and her a Senior in high school. It also felt good and fun.
I know a girl
She drinks her coffee really sweet
And thinks HTML’s really neat
And sometimes she drinks too much wine
But that’s just fine with me…
I know a girl
She drives like she’s really old
She’s never warm, she’s always cold
Doesn’t know what she wants to be
And that’s fine With Me…
I haven’t known this girl too long
But I’m writing her this song
Because she thinks I’m really swell
I don’t know how she could tell
But that’s fine with me,
Cause she is too
The birds were flying. That’s always a good sign on a day like today. Awake with a start and sweating hard, she wasn’t sure if she should leave the house. Then she heard them outside, chattering and chirping to each other. So calm, just sitting ont hat wire outside her bedroom window, basking in the sun. As one they took flight into the sun, still blazing orange on the horizon.
Today would be a good day.
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 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.
futile attempts at literary genius 
speak no evil