And then another birthday
It's still raining, it's still raining in the anemic morning hours, when I awake parched and stuffed. It's still raining when I fetch coffee, it's raining buckets, nay it's pissing rain when I trudge to the salon for my waxing which I endure, knowing that my landscaping will go unnoticed, it's still raining as I dress for B's birthday.
And then it quits.
So there are gutters that are rivers, and oxygen in alleys, and ruthless people selling streetsheets when I am trying to smoke in peace, and then candles and flourless chocolate cake which is so good that you'd like to immediately expell it from your person. And there's a vodka drink, a whiskey drink, a watermelon drink, and there is the bobbing and weaving in the back seat as we wend our way to the next destination, which just happens to be the Zeitgeist. The asstute reader (since I have no idea how to link back to it, but if you must, see the beginning of November) will remember that I lost my phone after I knocked my noggen on the floor of the bar, and later, ridiculously, made out for hours with my first boyfriend. Where was I? Oh so, on that November evening it rained as well, though not quite so copiously, I digress.
So tonight before I laud the tar black, black ice black top. Before I praise the red light snaking down 17th street, before I vaunt a fleeting reflection from the back seat, perhaps I ought to laud myself, just a little, just a little.
Picture this if you can, a mini park in a city, paved in quartz gravel, motorcycles, a patronage of the dubiously employed, cheap drinks in pint glasses, park benches, pink elephants. Picture that under the pelting rain, a bayou at the base of the stairs, a rippled swamp.
And there under the rain, there across the bayou, the churning muddy water, and the lashes of rain there is a pint glass, lonely and half full and rising. I have got it my head that I need to retrieve this glass, this is fortified by the semi-cute glass half empty boy who dismisses me.
So what does Emma do? Emma goes after the glass, the gauntlet has been thrown.
Picture the newly blondied girl in the red trousers and the slippery boots, picture her with refreshed lipstick (as it was) and freshly waxed (as she is) and her coat is missing a button that she hasn't had the time to mend. And the sort of cute straight boy disputed my claim that the lone pint glass has filled in 45 minutes, and therefore I resolve to fetch it and fill it again.
Which means that I hand over my purse to T, skate down the slippery beams to the edge of the burdgeoning pond, jump the beam, navigate the picnic table, nearly fall, grab the glass in triumph, bask as my friends hoot and holler, make my way to a safe haven, drop the glass, retrieve the glass, fall on my ass, make it to safety, impress the everlovin shit out of the straight boy, decline the drink he offers. Am wet, matters not, danced in the rain, danced in the rain, am wet, danced in the rain, danced in the rain, danced in the rain.
It's still raining, it's still raining in the anemic morning hours, when I awake parched and stuffed. It's still raining when I fetch coffee, it's raining buckets, nay it's pissing rain when I trudge to the salon for my waxing which I endure, knowing that my landscaping will go unnoticed, it's still raining as I dress for B's birthday.
And then it quits.
So there are gutters that are rivers, and oxygen in alleys, and ruthless people selling streetsheets when I am trying to smoke in peace, and then candles and flourless chocolate cake which is so good that you'd like to immediately expell it from your person. And there's a vodka drink, a whiskey drink, a watermelon drink, and there is the bobbing and weaving in the back seat as we wend our way to the next destination, which just happens to be the Zeitgeist. The asstute reader (since I have no idea how to link back to it, but if you must, see the beginning of November) will remember that I lost my phone after I knocked my noggen on the floor of the bar, and later, ridiculously, made out for hours with my first boyfriend. Where was I? Oh so, on that November evening it rained as well, though not quite so copiously, I digress.
So tonight before I laud the tar black, black ice black top. Before I praise the red light snaking down 17th street, before I vaunt a fleeting reflection from the back seat, perhaps I ought to laud myself, just a little, just a little.
Picture this if you can, a mini park in a city, paved in quartz gravel, motorcycles, a patronage of the dubiously employed, cheap drinks in pint glasses, park benches, pink elephants. Picture that under the pelting rain, a bayou at the base of the stairs, a rippled swamp.
And there under the rain, there across the bayou, the churning muddy water, and the lashes of rain there is a pint glass, lonely and half full and rising. I have got it my head that I need to retrieve this glass, this is fortified by the semi-cute glass half empty boy who dismisses me.
So what does Emma do? Emma goes after the glass, the gauntlet has been thrown.
Picture the newly blondied girl in the red trousers and the slippery boots, picture her with refreshed lipstick (as it was) and freshly waxed (as she is) and her coat is missing a button that she hasn't had the time to mend. And the sort of cute straight boy disputed my claim that the lone pint glass has filled in 45 minutes, and therefore I resolve to fetch it and fill it again.
Which means that I hand over my purse to T, skate down the slippery beams to the edge of the burdgeoning pond, jump the beam, navigate the picnic table, nearly fall, grab the glass in triumph, bask as my friends hoot and holler, make my way to a safe haven, drop the glass, retrieve the glass, fall on my ass, make it to safety, impress the everlovin shit out of the straight boy, decline the drink he offers. Am wet, matters not, danced in the rain, danced in the rain, am wet, danced in the rain, danced in the rain, danced in the rain.
posted by emma at
11:54 PM
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