She rolled a 5×5 matrix around on her tongue, and it was harder than watching her with a lollipop.
Is your boyfriend picking you up? It was unnecessary, so he didn’t say it.
Instead, “You’re drunk,” he pointed out, not un-humorously.
She leaned back into the couch, and stretched her arms upward with a wince, with evident satisfaction. The matrix glimmered on her tongue as she laughed. Her eyes were sleepy and contented, like a cat’s.
He imagined that she was imagining the arc of a satellite launched up and out into orbit.
“Not really!” she retorted. But she had water rather than beer now, and while she looked faraway in that sleepy, contented way, her expressions also made the two of them closer than they appeared. There was a half-cushion’s worth of couch between them. Rows and columns rattled against the edge of her glass as she drank, the sound like an ice cube.
“You can always stay here, if you want. We have room.” The couch. His bedroom.
The party had died down too much for anything they said to be confidential. Her gamine smile hid the numbers in her mouth, and her utter comfort in the curves of the couch was evident even as she put her glass down on the coffee table, and stood up.
What pitch of entropy, what glassy trumpet call
The roar and rolling of a mindless sea
Drowning men of words and beasts of calm
No constant but constant mercury
Shatter there upon the rocks and rise again
To resound, a death knell for death’s rest
That peace which might have been our lot
Between cauldron’s boil and thorny crest
What fury roused and left unanswered!
What ardor, fear, and stark unknowing
Whether against the swell or drifting apart
She cradles – ever sinking, ever floating
He audits life with his mother
And plays cards with his father
He leaned in for a kiss
On the cheek, a crossette
To seal her answer
He never imagined they would become
Like his father and his mother
Such cheerful rags; much my maker made of me
And yet more in fortune gave, until time’s fickle Chanticleer
Called his third of a vernal April’s day, upon the dew still glistening
Or so I contend – no matter the hour, I went with the dawn
Betwixt her red clouds scudding
Elizabeth Cook, 2017
Painting by Thomas Kinkade
It felt like an age had passed while I was in the restroom. Yet it hadn’t been long enough. The older I get the less these conditional holidays seem like holidays at all, and more like work in disguise.
Reluctantly, I turned towards the voice and the mountains. Either it was my imagination or the twilight on that side of the plaza was deepening; shadows darkening the flowers among the scrub, and far above them, the pines and the crags. Someone had seen fit to leave a stone table on the grass not far from me, and its weathered scrollwork, and cracked surface, managed to convey forlornness amid the rest of this zytocoke1-fueled fantasy.
Mavind was sitting there, waiting for me with her cream self perched upon the faded grey, feet off the ground and legs swaying slightly. The table might as well have been placed for her. A creeper was growing up one leg. (more…)
I forged a path toward the washroom through the thinner bits of the crowd, conscious that my newfound powers in clearing away knots of people were 100% due to the Junoesque figure following me. And this, I realized, was one of the most exciting things that had happened on any of our CLPFC days; the expressions around us were awash with curiosity, shock, and delight. Everyone here would know that Ibrander’s date had jumped ship to Lalantree before lunch was served.
Trying to scan as many faces as possible without making eye contact (now this is a true art) I almost bumped into Loddi’s mum. This in spite of her neon floral mumu. “Oh, hello Lalantree. Loddi isn’t with you?”
“No…” Mavind had come up close behind me, and Loddi’s mum did a double take. (more…)