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 London’s 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 gallery’s 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 coffee’s 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 Magritte’s lover about to be kissed, but we ‘d been going for a drink. She was the first real person in maybe six months that I’d had an extended amount of time with I wasn’t 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 didn’t mind losing. Whole day, secret scenes, over grown graveyard, walled church, hidden in the alcoves out of sight, just her and her alone, I couldn’t 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 wouldn’t 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 “don’t contact me anymore”.

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