the cop outside is sucking feverishly on a cigarette (ette. feminine). he waits between the wall and the windowpane in my line of vision while i ask myself what the purpose is in standing up straight, lining my back against the counter to watch him. as i watch i desire revenge for something he never did. he lifts his head, exposing his sharp jaw line like another weapon in his holster. his gun was more attractive.
the couple next to me are holding hands, fingers interlaced, every other one pastel pink, every other one plain. she could be holding her hands up to her eyes and peeking out through the openings to look at me, but she's not. she is chewing on something, his mouth is still. i want to cut all of her hair off, all the way back to her eyes. then i want to look in them.
there is a woman wearing sweat pants cut at the knees pacing towards, the edges of her body wobbly and strange. she smells like fish and pot, and she stumbles when she gets close, muttering a confused apology. she is one of my least favorites.
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I loved this one. Descriptive and real are the only ways i can think to sum it up.
ReplyDeleteThe descriptions feel like a Judy Grahn poem, and maybe some Atwood, or maybe that's just because you talk about wobbly bodies and fish. How come we always choose our favorite people everywhere we are? Even without knowing them, we can tell - "she is one of my least favorites." Anyhow, I like how tangeable and close this is. It's like I've got my face pressed up against what you're writing, and I can feel it, like dirt underneath my fingernails.
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