Québec
2 October 2002 (9:31 am) Manhattan, West 30’s

Jeremy.  has been talking lately.  of things.

“Take care of that Sam.  You really should.  It’s not funny anymore, all this partying.  You’re not in high school anymore my friend.”

for another of our high school friends but married last week.

“You know Sam, there are only a few of us left.”

“I know J.  They’re dropping like flies.”

“That’s better.  No use moping forever about her.”

“One thing has nothing to do with the other J.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“J?”

“Yeah, I don’t call you S for fucksake.”

“Nice.  I know why you’re not married fuckmouth.”

at the caff Jeremy takes his coffee for granted.  we, the world and i, admire him.  he is a sensation.  he gives life to inanimate objects by having no real interest in them.  the room and its elements are extensions of his body.  his suit doesn’t need him, but is thankful.  i want to run my hands down either side of his inseam.

a woman enters in supernatural dress, liquid movement of flesh and fabricc, solid deepening blue that hoards breasts like beads of rain on the tip of a well oiled finger.  black heeled shoes with straps writhe around drunken snake ankles.  she rotates her head and a wisp of hair drops in front of her eyes.  she orders a latte.

“There’s your reason I’m not married Sam.  Something that rich?  You can’t resist it, but you sure can’t eat it everyday.”

the cashier takes her money.  he has a ring through his eyebrow and pale skin.  his shirt is too small, and reveals tight muscles and the strict adherence of (to) a  coffee and cigarette diet.

“Go on J.  No apologies.  You and that suit are a walking hard on.”

“It’s not criminal is it?  Just because all you do is drink anymore-”

“Forget it J.  Go hunt.  I’ll catch up with you later this week.”

hand clap on my shoulder, any argument dis-J-mounted by the rapid blood flow to his central heating unit.  we are best ofs now, so long as i am satisfied with,

“Right Sammy.  Cheer up man.  Forget about her.”

“Right J.”  and Jeremy slithers to the liquid, not hearing my soft, “prick,” as i exit, less coffee.

outside another woman sits perched on a park bench.  she watches as if she expects me to jump at her.  she smiles and digs through a purse.  i expect a gun and walk on.

in a few steps, i cup the thin air into my hands and bring it to my mouth like water.  the cold day on the tip of my nose makes me laugh.  i forgive.  for a moment.

but now my head is splitting.  last night Barpatron said she wanted a fuck in the hallway to the bathroom.

she vodka breathes heavily in my ear with her arms around my neck.

“Not in front of a crowd, but maybe if-”

“You don’t really want it.”

“Of course I do.  Let’s go to your place.”

yanks her arms from around my shoulders and pushes gloom dejection into the ladies room.  i grab the door before it comclosesplete.

inside lights are peculiar eyes on her.  she ignores me just enough to let me know she’s glad took i the bait.  the show includes concerned hair and re-apps of the marykay cosmos.  a little cokedive in the purse with a measured no offer.  bright now eyes.  imaginary wrinkles to do on a handpat sides of tranquil little dress black.  fabricc snaps quiet on drugtight skin, ribbly stomach like a semper fi mattress.  she but would make loose change projectiles.  the little black tight alright, but just on this side of classic sexy.

i’ve waited her out.

“What did you follow me in here for?”

“Don’t treat me like that.  We just met.”

save the abuse for better knowns.

“Are you embarrassed?”

“Should I be?”

should we?  i can tell things are working but shouldn’t.

“Stay.”

she leans sinkover, inspects her there.  i door by, hand think to turn.  wince.  this is too far from Moresmile lives.  this sad is no present, but a fretted futurepast.  my eyes begin the memory daze as i turn to escape myself.  Shebar looks over me not shelooking, says,

“Isn’t there a lock on the door?”

isn’t there.  look down i destroyed.  yes.  there is.  effective slidshot open as it will be after-

“Lock it.”

-to keep out better judgment mine.  the love i is beyond the lock, waiting but not disappointed.  my Morning will have plenty to say about this.  there’s no come over here needed now.  we crash together the desperate, angry enough to enjoy the hate inside.

“What’s your name,” ask i.

“It used to be that simple,” she laughs bitter.  word toughs, but body piranha conscious, wrapped with mine on a fear thin raft in the midst violent of our marble press jarring sex.

“No really,” i persist.

“What’s yours?”

“Sam.”

“Funny.  Mine’s Sam too.”

i don’t say anything that after.  we find a spot enough, though can’t bring ourselves to prop the john.  walls and sink only.  we’re civilized for that.  when we surface, no one looks up.  it’s a nightslow juke drone behind a tvbleacher backdrop.  a desert.  we stare unsure.

“Do you want to come back to my place Sam?”

“You don’t have to offer.”

“I know.”

she walks door through and i puppy follow with the no thought to.  her elbows are up thinking through her purse.  she corners a cab and leaves the door open.  all this without looking back at me.  no words.  i in climb and speed away to inknown liedowns.  the escape drink will wake us.  think it we both know this is mistaking.  our threads bare to the fresh impulse already.  waking it will be rough and primitive in a public sink.  while in this moment the thread still wants to be love(d).

present present i am overstranded on the eighth floor above a crowded street.  a million lives move past, dart, and i feel straight up through the drop ceiling, the crucial.  the mass slip, flip fish fins.  a thousand speeding stars give constant sun impressions.  a sad nod of Atman and Brahman.  a million individuals.  one soul.

that’s a spin off way of thinking.  what were my first instincts about the eighth floor?  there’s no telling.  Barbara is at me again about thisandthat.  that i should know which.  i should, sincerely believe.  but i can’t be bothered be on this eight flights up.  i miss my winged friend Flights and Morning.

“Babs needs to see you when she gets back from lunch.”

“From lunch is it?  It’s three fifteen.”

“Watch your step Sam.”

fair enough.  soon enough.  need i to focus out of the unusual commute this dayrise.  her name was Karen.  i checked her wallet while she in the bathroom savored, solitude most probably.  we spent the night on lifeboats and no she mind when the Karen slipped out.

“I would have told you eventually.”

want i to ask why, but it seemed but a sniffle, with us bent spoons rocking slight, tack and tepid forth on the few slivers of-  not peace.  an injection of relief for the few hours it took the spin cycle.

but with this think,  i am beating myself with a numb arm and a blindfold on.  the kiss not a kiss in itself.  not the good ones remember i.  the push me to believe kisses kiss.  times i mistake targets for the passage of arrows.  blood up believes in the ideas of tomorrow.  dizzy corpuscles pass over the haveandnothemingway; one arm stumpy secret revealed dead end.  nice day for it though.

the weather is wonderful.  outside, below my window, fatted squirrels chase each other around trees.  they are furious, driven, and i cheer waitfully for them to tear each other to shreds.

an old woman bends over to retrieve something at her feet.  she must have forgotten by now what it is.  to me, from here, i could swear it was a piece of trash and not money, not a picture of the man who widowed her, not an old handkerchief.  nothing worth the pressure on old creaking vertebrae or the loss of time she could spend coughing and straining over a newspaper.

spleen for the elderly.  sometimes sucker memories are a public mine service.  the truly old woman is glad hair, grey spindles that can’t but bring hair Moresmile thoughts.  a few way inches, the elder trieves; a piece of litter; a pollution too close to her morning bench.  looks but up at window mine as a pitying smile drops the refuse into a tinyslight better world.  point taken.  ablutions.  faintly she reconsiders her usual prop and benches on, giving a penance nod of head hers to my eight floors up; one that says: keep to your Moresmile memories.

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