Sitting drinking red Gatorade in the bath, water almost scalding with clementine coriander flavored froth, I reformulate my metaphysics. That is, tonight I’ll rationalize my lust to calm my breath, settle deep indigo ‘gainst my boyish chest as I sink down. A self of pure sensation—I see promise here.
Months devolve into weeks into days into hours, metaphysical weather accrues, sweaty office girls, labourers and butcher’s assistants soaked in deodorant wish for long life and health like the hall-porter-doorman. It still astonishes me, the sun and the summer and my thinking cap, the one with the hole in it.
I don’t remember the affair that we had when we were co-workers, and I was 19, and you were 33. If I did remember…
Perhaps I have the snake to thank. Before I saw it sliding, fast across the path, before I froze and watched it simply melt away, I hadn’t thought to fix my wandering gaze on ground. Nor noticed what I had been stepping on.