Evening started like a salvaging: a laundry battle. Some man in the building was trying to do laundry at the same time as me. I never saw him in the course of battle, but knew it was a man because his clothes were the color of wet sand, thick, heavy material like waterlogged bodies washed up on a beach. With each load, we in turn practiced the pre-emptive, unloading the dripping mounds of each other’s clothes on top of the machine they’d just revolved in before placing our own inside. Should have been there at the end of the cycles, neither of us ever making it in time for first second the spinning settled. Evening ended with Graeme’s call, meteoroids cascading on his end to the earth. I could see nothing of them, my windows face east, the remaining directions barricaded by the brick walls of adjoining buildings. Clothes hung or laid flat and still around me, their final dampness being eaten by the air, I listened to him describe the fireballs as if he were telling me of a dream he once had, not asking him if they vaporized mid fall or hit the earth, not bothering to move from my settee, knowing there wasn't a chance I’d see their glowing tails from my position, which, despite this island, seemed suddenly landlocked. A day later and he tells me he’s coming home on the overnight bus.
. . .
When I think of you I think of fraying skirt stitches? Active verb. Small frays.
. . .
!
he missed the mini E dress-up/dance partii on saturday--but hey. more to come.
Posted by caroline at August 16, 2006 1:27 PMwell-
in few short hours i will be falling fiery meteoric directly into your lap: only metaphoric smokemisting craters and hectares of flattened forest can follow...
apocalypt!
Posted by: graeme at August 17, 2006 11:18 PMHot Times.
the courtroom loves it.
xo