The silhouette of the grill on my balcony startles me when I catch a glimpse of it while I'm roaming in the middle of the night. I'm not used to it yet. Last night, pacing restlessly along the lake, I stumbled into a blackberry bramble I wasn't expecting. I need to stop tromping about the neighborhood in the smaller hours, because one of these nights I'm going to come across something tougher than thorns.
I'm actually doing pretty nicely during the days, but at night I still want to be where everything else isn't. I want to be tying each of my toes with helium balloons and wafting over back roads and fields of daisies, doing your hair for the ball and whispering secrets to dirty children with their two front teeth gone. I can fold in half and fit right in your pocket, you know.
To one or the other of them, I would say, "Just what is it that you wanted from me? Here is a list of options; please pick one. Reading minds is among the many things I am no good at." To a few I would say, "Yeah, I didn't know what I was doing, either. Sorry about that."
But I know what I need to do, and that is to sit on balconies and docks and fluffy white clouds, carving a thousand pages of e e cummings into the smallest veins I can dig out. I need a few more late afternoons of ice-cold cocktails and giggling so hard I nearly fall out of deck chairs, of ridiculously grandiose statements that make me screech, "Ow! I think I just rolled my eyes so hard I lodged a contact in my cranium!" I need to fall quickly in and out of love with three dozen pretty boys with visible tattoos and eyeliner, all communicated via a half-smile and a wink from across the room.
No touching, please, unless for hugging and friendly socks on the arm. Your fingerprints are, at this exact moment, freaking my shit out. Get out of my shopping cart, please.
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