A couple of retractable ball point pens, black, and a crisp sheet of white paper.
The morning opening slowly across the valley like a flower, a soft breeze searching through the leaves and time stretching every-which way.
Breakfast will be later, maybe a swim late evening.
Hmmmm, almost perfect.
Almost?
Well, I have no idea what to write, so the paper stares at me; demanding answers, offering none.
Do I have to write?
Will anyone care if I don’t?
Will anyone even know?
There was a party at the weekend; friends gathered in the back garden of a suburban street and a professional cocktail booth was installed. Porn star martinis were, apparently, the thing. Many were drunk, though I stuck to beer. Someone was there who was suffering with laryngitis so had prepared a number of hand written notes in anticipation of conversations that they would have.
‘Hello, I’m….’ began one.
‘I’m getting married in May…” started another.
I felt sorry and supportive so went looking for paper and pencil of my own and tried to join in.
‘What’s a porn star martini’, I wrote.
Most people thought I was mad.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment