emma b. says

Sunday, June 03, 2007

another Juneary

another June gloom, it's time to break out the hats and scarves, it's time to gird for the iron belt of unpenetrable fog, it's time to lay down and nap while the rest of the hemisphere embraces summertime.

My heat has been humming since the midafter-- well you know what I mean, and besides it's late. It's just plain cold out. You never really realize how much you miss, until you have fired up a particular soundtrack, and the missing comes charging out of the fog like the four dogs of Cerebus to nip agitatedly at the heels on the legs you never knew were yours.

Four legged and dogged in ways that are far better than cotton candy, I am the decider, after all, I am the flightsuitless decider, inching along, edging hesitantly towards a space some call greatness and others call due, I've got my arms laden with too many humble pies to even mouth those words, but what I have right now is the keys to the short bus, and I intend to shanghai myself and those pies and go somewhere I can't even see.

I look to the future and all I see in snow on the television, it's a great wide open. I am taking my butterfly net and nothing else, to capture diodes of light like fireflys out there in the immutable static, I'll paint the grays in shades of crimson and violet. My upturned tea cup yields no secrets, it's a future I can't read, it's a familiar that isn't mine, it's a June full of sunshine and the benevolence of summer.

It's a suprise.

Had dinner with the Hairdresser night before last. Here is what he said, as I stuffed sashimi into my face to mask my astonishment. I am sorry. I made a mistake. I should not have walked away. I miss, I miss you (us).

me: ---

me: (in french) that's very kind, you know I loved you. But it's five years later and I still love your hands but I am moving forward and I would not permit you to derrail me. You are sad, I can see that, you are turning 46 and are consumed with regret. I can see that as clearly as I can see your hands are older.

he: -- fumbles as he wants to enfold me.

It's not exactly scorn, that propels me into the cab. And it's not exactly retribution, either. It's just that is too late, like it' s too late for the engineer, like it's too late for all the ones I loved, because I loved, and I don't anymore. I am not exactly exasperated with R for coming around to scratch at my back door, I am ruefully flattered and tempted to hit it, freighting the consequences on the balance. Best not to. (really?)

(uh huh) what kind of can of worms do you want to open and would you really trade the consequences for a couple of hard won orgasms, would it really be worth it. Probably not.

Batteries are cheaper my good girl.


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