Saturday, February 5, 2011

A Line

I made a resolution: I'll write a line a day. Minimum, of course. Two lines are fine and 100, even better. But I have to start somewhere. I have to find my way back to the joy and energy of writing, the drive that won't let me delay my stories day after day after day.
A-line. It looks good on me, this vintage blue and green dress with darts at the bust and a zipper down the back. I can tell you're looking. I lean forward on the bar as I order my drink. Your eyes are burning into the back of my thighs as my skirt rides up a teasing inch higher.
A line. I've got one. It doesn't work of course. But it's something: words to say when words fail. I want that girl. I think she knows it. I think she wants me too. The worst that can happen is she grinds me into the pavement like a spent cigarette. No. The worst that can happen is she likes me but she's awful, with a grating voice and a the vocabulary of a five-year-old. No! The worst thing that can happen is we like each other for a week, a month, a year, and then some switch is flipped and we end up turning into terrible caricatures of love-gone-wrong. Fuck. Maybe I should go home.
A line. I felt one between us. I know I did. And then you got a look like you just remembered you lost your job because your mother died on your desk when you walked in on your boss schtuping her. See what a mix of disgust and despair will do to a handsome face? See in the mirror? Awww, maybe you ate something that doesn't agree with you. I should leave you alone. Except...
A line. There's a crazy line I cross sometimes where my brain shuts down. Like a robot faced with conflicting instructions, I pop and whir and act without logic. Somehow I find myself next to her as her drink arrives. "I think I have a picture of my mom wearing that dress," I say. What the fuck? Where did that come from? But the girl's smiling at me, letting me stammer on. "I mean, when she was young. She was really pretty. Not that you look like her, I mean -" There must be something wrong with this girl. She hasn't run away yet. She's letting me keep on digging this hole. "You're pretty too..." I end lamely. She's still smiling.
Align. I've turned my body towards you, tilted my head. You're trying very, very hard. I'm finding it charming, maybe even more so because it's so unnecessary. I don't need to be wooed when I find someone who fits. I step a tiny half step closer to you and breathe in deeply. You smell delicious. This is going to work out just fine.


nneo2 said...

different artist's regimes fascinate me. Somerset Maugham wrote - without fail - four hours a day in one go. Magritte worked the hours of a bank clerk - and looked like one too. Duchamp - apparently six moths every five years.

whatever you're doing is working well - your writing instantly has authority, completeness, the kind of totality we look for in paintings. I'm too tired to do it justice now but will be back, refreshed, tomorrow. I like your world:)


Rosie Q said...

Why, thank you! I find the more I write the more inspiration comes to me. Yet it's often hard to find time.