“S’ok No Thanks Necessary…”

I was terrified; the days of rolling thunder were upon me again. The window cold and sticky from yesterday’s heat and dust turned stale from too many breaths expelled while waiting, looking for rescue.
None would come from that quarter, could come. So many times had I been told that resources occur from within, so many times had I not listened that osmotically the message waited for me at every journey to the glass.
I should not be here; I should not be here. Chorus coming through. I should not be here; I should not be here. Yesterday dawned bright and cheerful, the birds did what birds do as I sat and shat the day before that away. I dressed, picking out my best for the days events, knowing that today would be more of the same as the as before, maybe a little less or more coffee, maybe a few more cigarettes and beer, maybe not. These days remain the same. Until there comes a wake up call.
Driving through the day, picking up time, putting down moments with others, casually moving along the segments between meals and rest, creating ease where none existed, accepting that that did, nobody gets hurt in these times of grace and favour, if we all just take life nice and slow. Looking out for street signs and stop lights can oftentimes take up the morning.
I should not be here.
The afternoon glazed in the heat, oven shimmer over the trees, birds now too tired to eat, lazing on branches eyeing the blacktar for insects jam caught and struggling. When up he comes. He’s pleased to see me, got his Sunday best smile on and a bottle in his pocket. Tells me of women wanting to see him n’ me, got ideas of a party, just them, him n’ me. And I’m thinking of the last time, down by the river, four of us again, girls whose names drifted like spring saplings caught in coldened eddies by year turn ice melts. Others had been there doing those things many many times before, others too had walked back up the river slope sheepish and frightened by promises made in headswim need to join young bodies together.
He talked a river, a mile, a wonderful time; he always could and did. I could not regret him or stop him his time, strangers would slow just to watch the wonder of his words and how he never seemed to pause or draw breath, though eventually too they would tire and walk away shaking their heads, marvelling at the waste of steam on winter days or the energy of it on days like these when sweat needed to trickle at a steady rate to make itself happen at all.
My day continued as his tarried a while down at the river, cooling his bottles in its lethargy. Somehow the rhythm was off; I couldn’t bring back the ‘flow.’ Flow, those times when thought ceases and what it is that we do best happens on automatic pilot, when time stretches back into child time, that golden time when summers were sweet and dry, long games between meals that held us full for hours. Time holding reverie in infinity of moments shared by innocence and unthoughtful wickedness that is little boys playing with whatever comes by or to hand. Concertina’d time where friendship and wars are fought and won constantly second by second, to be forgotten and remembered only to swap spit on palms smeared by grass and bark equally forgotten and remembered.
I should not be here.
My flow was gone, the road seemed dustier, emptier than ever before, crossing my path were those who before never could enter my mind, their lives pathed in differing ways. I called in: sick.
We met again at the river. As the bottles passed between us he talked of journeys that kept us apart, the battles, the joys and for balance, I guess, the few foetid lows that dog the footsteps of all who would walk an unmarked path. These were to be special times he insisted, special in that these times held magic for those who dared to be in tune with life. In time with love. In rhythm with the dances only Now could bring. How he spun as more bottles passed between us, he needed money of course, when had he not? Just a touch to pump prime a nice little project he wanted to get going.
Then the women were upon us. He held the bottle blonde of course, I held for the mousy friend, these were not times for me to sing a different song. The sun sinking slowed the heat a little; we swam, splashed and hung around to dry our bodies, attempting to not look at each other in that special way that those who will be lovers do. We slowly became closer, no movement to obvious, shallow or large to be meaningful, closer until breath could be felt along an arm. A neck. Freckles, moles and tiny scars spotted and accounted. What else can those who would be lovers do when conspiracy forms them?
Our pairings formed. Only our duty lay before us. The sky obliged need for private moments until we lay spent, gasping for air and a pale watered moon peered from cloud. These seconds after intimacy between strangers can be precious or seeded with fear, real intimacy repels fear, sexual chemistry can invite the lows that a lifetime of reflective seclusion will not dispel. After chemistry without intimacy eye scales that create illusion fall and the emperor is not only naked he’s a fat bastard too…
She smiled told me that she loved me and would be mine forever.
He was way over there, pulling on rope to bring more bottles out of the river, smiling away. I guess he thought he needed thanks.

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