Late Night Writing on a Thursday

The following is a piece I wrote on March 13, 2014. I’ve tweaked it a bit, rephrasing or leaving out where necessary. There is no beginning. There is no end. It is only a moment in time. The narrator is a man. You determine his appearance and the exact time and location.

With each drink, your face becomes clearer. I see your blue eyes, the fog that hovers over the water before a storm. The straw-colored hair, resembling the hay bales I lug around nearly every day, flowing out from under that baseball cap supporting the little league team you played for before you hit the third grade. The sweet taste warming my insides shows me what I’m missing.

The king-sized bed with the disheveled bedsheets. Your cheeks, blushing bright red, indicating the closeness of uncharted territory. The primal crave of skin on skin. Your innocence spins around the room faster than Dale Earnhardt, Jr., at the Daytona raceway. Why aren’t you here now? Because I’m an idiot.

Because I pushed you too hard. Too far. Another sip and you’re closer. Almost, but not quite. Your light blue sundress sways in the wind, in the field before me, the white daisies desperately trying to break free of the soft cotton. There you are. So close, but so far out of reach. So far from me.

One more sip. Your laugh echoes in my ears over the out-of-tune country wannabe band doing their damnedest to sound just like George Straight on this lonely Friday night. The sound of heavenly tinkling bells sucks me in. Remember the time we parked behind that abandoned barn on the outskirts of town? Good times, right? God, I miss those days.

Another sip. The field…no, the room….is that a mirror? It’s all spinning. Faster. Faster. Black.


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