story #7 Start
slave gets me to pour the contents to anonymous, anonymous set up, the possibility of
loves there, the flesh of someone you actually want, with out second thoughts. A couple of
episodes ago, two things come to mind. Once a trip to Londons Tate gallery, walking
across the bridge to big Ben caught the bus twenty meters. In the seat in front of me is a
woman with auburn brown hair is lit against the Thames softly smoking blue. I never met
her but in the seat between us lay a black beret. I pick it up. Yells from the driver and
passengers below telling me this is the stop, I got off, in front of Monet, next to Degas
model of a little girl, between, stood a creature of solid composition before floating
forms. Stinging my hand hiding promise, I focus on the harmonious before I even set saw
her eyes. I tried following her half hearted, but drifted in art gallerys room
containing art out of frame. There was a memorable moment in front of a Turner, parliament
on fire, and her gaze is smeared along my back trickling over my ears into my mouth into
my eyes, the small room not able to contain the two of us, other people backing out, her
turning, me this time on her back, a pleasing flirt, a light flick over her neck across to
the paint behind, of which I cannot recall. Not that much later alone in the beaten
British sun straggling through to the galleries steps, myself sitting uncommon a loud
expectation, like a house proud fence percher, I had to notice that the uncommon woman
siting she indeed the same lightening bolt now incarnate a tweed and strawberry blonde,
sat hunched clutching something in her lap, a cold soul ran about her, I asked if she
would mind taking a picture of me, she hands me her smoke. The camera has a screen where
you can see your self, this gives me the opportunity to move for a moment next to her, the
fabric of her weave swells like two liquids poured into a jar then drunk, she laughs as I
act out, I invite her for a coffee and it works like we actually want to meet. Maybe I do
own something.
I remember our coffees going cold sketching each
other convinced by some shared premonition that this was not going to last, she gave me
her impression I looked good, with my black beret. I followed her back to Cambridge, she
said tourists should get a look and come for a beer, I did it was heaven, her friends were
a lot younger looking than her, they were thrilled with their pictures on the camera,
exploit to get a moment of her on film, a pulled pose, almost too illusive to capture, I
wilt in her shyness, and rage in her view. On the train out she had laughed at the soccer
boy mouth open asleep, pulling her coat over her face she sat calmly for me to examine, I
fell for her suggestion of Magrittes lover about to be kissed, but we d been
going for a drink. She was the first real person in maybe six months that Id had an
extended amount of time with I wasnt going to fuck it up. Anyway She had to leave
that evening to a stock take, she worked in a local clothing retailer, dropping her off I
decided I would stay the night, she offered to show me around tomorrow, we had gone to her
local café, her brothers/ family was a local legend, she was born in Cambridge, not
brought in by school, innocently smart we played chess I put my balls in one basket to be
more sexy, I didnt mind losing. Whole day, secret scenes, over grown graveyard,
walled church, hidden in the alcoves out of sight, just her and her alone, I couldnt
do it. Walking through the markets where everyone knew her, feeling like I was there, from
there, her hand, her wanting me there.
Climbing a branch to get on to a little island her climbing
part way up me kissing her pointed mouth, kissing her smile, moving to the fields, on my
jacket, coaxing lips from teeth white and smooth, thinking how she had really undid one
button on her shirt bending to take the shot in the pup with old timers watching racing
that had said kiss me there is no doubt. I held her arms. Dots floating in a sea I closely
followed the shiny black surface of her eyes, we ran out of time. Evening, she had to go
home, she was leaving to Solomon Islands in two days, Sociology paper, things to do. She
wouldnt let me record her, trying against her pleads not raising past her feet. I
was put on a plane a train I was gone, staring at the vacant seat across with no number
for her name. Which draws me to thought two. Almost a decade later, an ex-girl friend
moves to England. She writes to me, I am interested, she seems interested, but she is not.
Two years of thinking about her and I pull the plug dont contact me
anymore.
core
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