73 degrees, Midnight Blue

This is what we call an interlude, when by metaphysical concensus every woman shows up to work in a skirt and open toed heels, and skirts are everywhere, every lenghth, every color. Too short, too long, too patterned, trailing into dubious footware. Long legs, skinny legs, gorgeous legs, unfortunate cankles, translucent in the sunlight, networked in bluish veins. Chipping pedicures of unfortunate provenance, six months of winter in need of sloughing.

Evening falls with the slightest hiss, and all of March's dying blossoms perfume the perfect azure sky with a certain headiness that leads to Spring madness and the newly coupled fornicating like soft bunnies under hidden eves, whilst I fend off the unwanted affections of an effusive barfly and head home cloaked in the blue velvet of this gentle evening, plucking the particular and sweetly succulent night blooming jasmine, dancing to the metronome of my own footfalls, gathering a nose gay for the impending plague.

Oh it's lovely, lovely in light and hue and tone, lovely in ways that would easily take one-thousand and fifty words, and even then the most pearly adjective could never do justice to a balmy March evening, when the whole of Marin has erupted in jade, and the night sky rounds into the most tragic shade of pacific blue, and you know that everything and nothing will ever be alright, but that particular shade of blue at evensong is eternal.

So with your good friends you put Joy Division, Hank Williams Sr., The Breeders and Patsy Cline on the juke box, have a giggle, have a shuck and jive, long for a warm bed, a hot bath, a pair of warm arms, settle on a wreath of jasmine and a glimpse of dogwood and the artifice of perfumed bath salts.