Fiction

Listening to Cursive
by Chris Brogan

   

It was a Bill Evans piano piece with the boots up on a cubicle desk that got me following ice skater curves in my mind. MY mind, so black paper, gold ink. Not gold like money but gold like experience in your heart's mechanics. Minutes waterfalled over my shoulders, as if someone cared.

Listening to Cursive by Chris Brogan

Lazy piano swirling into clouds of breath, though the pavement's melting outside. A phone exchanges rings and vows across the hall, a small ceremony, I assure you. Hopeful for tomorrow? Can't say. Not through with today.

I'm waiting for the murderer to come and strangle the green out of the leaves. Beaches can't empty fast enough. My sweaters are waiting. Yarn mittens? Get knittin'. Rattlebone sticks to crack my boots on the rocky trails around the pond. Newspaper colored days and orange sky nights, pregnant with blizzards, can't come soon enough.

Coltrane blows in, telling me it's wonderful. Tasting my sweat on her skin is wonderful. Blowing out candles and smearing the honey-hued wax is wonderful. A reason for quilts is wonderful. I can't get rid of mercury fast enough. Isn't there a sale? No sails. It pales when the 'trane rattles the tracks, shivers our backs. Reeds of gold. Cursive on the air.

Simple curves for fingers to trace. Eggplant round and full. I lose myself in a walk around her memory, breathing in her copper and chestnut, tasting her bramble bush, taking a dip in her hot pool. And there's no way I can push the glass wider to force the sand through quick enough to get me back home.

It's crows on the wire watching, watching, waiting for the wheat to spit out a rabbit and a truck to pay no never mind. It's gas stations and rusty Coke signs tapping out brush strokes on your brain. She's drinking and you're sweating, and she's sweating and you're drinking her in. It's ankles in the wind and an old convertible you don't even own, with a fuzzy rabbit's foot on the keychain.

I can't say it any other way. Phone's pregnant before the wedding. Where's the ring? Gold sweaters and newspapers in our future, I'll say that much. Candlelight eggplant crow sweat. Bop. Done.

 
 

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© 2003 Chris Brogan