From my perspective, getting drunk and falling into a forest where I’d heard a girl would be makes a whole lot of sense. There is really no reason I wouldn’t do that. But if I was to try and set that stage a thousand times over, I would be a little surprised if a girl showed up once.
The stars refused to move at all, and it was cloudy anyway. She fell asleep on a cold, damp bench, with her cheek in a bit of a puddle. Shivering and waking up every other minute. Her bed was only a few blocks away and the only thing more surprising than her showing up was that she didn’t leave.
I would have been lonely without her back to keep me company. It was a superb specimen, complete with spine and blade of shoulder. Actually two of the latter, if you can believe it. I kept my hand pressed gently between them a while — long enough that I couldn’t feel it anymore — and thought about the possibility of becoming fused to her. Sure, life with only one hand sounds a little tricky, and it would be at first, but people adapt. I decided not to worry about it. Plus, I had a wonderful new girl attachment at the end of my wrist, and I’d be certain to find all manner of uses for it.
There was a button on the back of her coat which snagged at my hands and ruined otherwise perfectly executed effleurages. My fingertips began to take exploratory passes at the button like four comets circling a star. Their oblong orbit would evolve into increasingly complex patterns as I became more confident, and soon I was drawing landscapes and scenes for her, sending meager artistic suggestions into her dream. The button was a moon over a lake, a cluster of florets at the center of a paper daisy, and the eye of a great storm. I realized I was still drunk.
My hand rose and fell with her breathing. I felt that I was in control of her lungs, playing them like an accordion. I made sure to keep a steady, sensible rhythm going, that her blood would beat bright red and shuttle little parcels of THC and alcohol into her brainparts. It’s nice, you know, to feel that you are really helping.
I was drunk and overtired. My feet were soaking wet, legs half-eaten by chiggers. About as comfortable as I’ll ever be.
The skylords have decided not to drop any snow this year, but to come right down and gently lay a sheet of ice across the ground. The fog just kind of rolled in and splayed out over the earth until it hardened and stuck there. Lazy and uninspired.
I suppose it’s pretty. The leaves and the grass are all white and stiff, and it would look nice enough in a photograph. Concrete and asphalt, though, have become harrowing adventures. Without the childish excitement of the first snow of the year it feels like a bit of a ripoff.
Landlords and shop owners haven’t bothered to salt the sidewalks, and the city has not mobilized to defrost the roads at all. I watched a woman step slowly, trepidatiously down the hill toward Columbia station, poking her toe at a particularly difficult section before deciding to give up and turn back the way she came. I crossed the bit she gave up on, because I think men are allowed to fall over and break their skulls open.
I guess when the sky itself half-asses its job, the rest of us just do the same. There would be no point banging a shovel against the ice, and if you’re not shoveling anything how do you know where to spread the salt? People will figure out new ways to walk, and the ones who don’t will die. A more surefooted generation comes.
Trepidatiously should be fast-tracked into the dictionary. But I’m not very good at starting things and probably shouldn’t have deleted my website.
Christoph SushnykI'm not really interested in blogging so much as forced by some ancient brain malarkey to publish accounts of mundane bullshit I trip over.