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I'm back.
18 years ago
There's a cat curled up in front of my door. Red headscarf and a flannel clothes that could be blue.
Well, I say cat; kitty. Everybody looks younger asleep, and besides, you can't ask a woman her age. Not that I'm much of a gentleman. I can't get in with her there without opening the door, so I set my briefcase down on the steps and sit next to her. I light up. Real gentlemanly, I know, but she's asleep so she doesn't care.
She isn't bad looking. A big butterfly of black fur around her eyes like one of those fancy italian masks, and patches of white and ginger all over, like she was wearing orange peel. Haha, I'm such a poet.
Anyway, it's a face with which a younger, stupider man could fall in love. Gentlemen Prefer Tortoiseshells, like the movie.
I leave a bulbous cloud of grey hanging in front of me for a moment, watching the embers nibble at the end of the cigarette. She curls further into herself. How do they do that? Answers on a postcard, please. And I smile, 'cause red used to be my favourite colour once and I've got a girl on the doorstep. Almost like the old days.
I'm waiting for Magnum to burst into the barn with both eyes, scatter the poles of sunlight poking through the bullet holes, and get creative with the guys who were winning the fight, the air sweet with blood and the warmth of shit. God, it's been a while. What the hell happened?
A motorcar rattles down the street, old thing, and the kitty stirs and yawns. A hand bumps into the whiskers on my cheek and catches one on the way back down. Ouch. She jerks awake, reels over to the edge of the steps, blinking. She's startled and my cheek stings.
"I.." She tries, blinking something out of her eyes. "I'm so sorry. Is it you? I'm so sorry." This is odd. She makes up her mind, and bursts into tears. She buries her head in my stomach. It makes a change from everyone saying 'hello'.
Something in me breaks for this girl though. Just this once, I'm going to be the good guy, and win.
Well, I say cat; kitty. Everybody looks younger asleep, and besides, you can't ask a woman her age. Not that I'm much of a gentleman. I can't get in with her there without opening the door, so I set my briefcase down on the steps and sit next to her. I light up. Real gentlemanly, I know, but she's asleep so she doesn't care.
She isn't bad looking. A big butterfly of black fur around her eyes like one of those fancy italian masks, and patches of white and ginger all over, like she was wearing orange peel. Haha, I'm such a poet.
Anyway, it's a face with which a younger, stupider man could fall in love. Gentlemen Prefer Tortoiseshells, like the movie.
I leave a bulbous cloud of grey hanging in front of me for a moment, watching the embers nibble at the end of the cigarette. She curls further into herself. How do they do that? Answers on a postcard, please. And I smile, 'cause red used to be my favourite colour once and I've got a girl on the doorstep. Almost like the old days.
I'm waiting for Magnum to burst into the barn with both eyes, scatter the poles of sunlight poking through the bullet holes, and get creative with the guys who were winning the fight, the air sweet with blood and the warmth of shit. God, it's been a while. What the hell happened?
A motorcar rattles down the street, old thing, and the kitty stirs and yawns. A hand bumps into the whiskers on my cheek and catches one on the way back down. Ouch. She jerks awake, reels over to the edge of the steps, blinking. She's startled and my cheek stings.
"I.." She tries, blinking something out of her eyes. "I'm so sorry. Is it you? I'm so sorry." This is odd. She makes up her mind, and bursts into tears. She buries her head in my stomach. It makes a change from everyone saying 'hello'.
Something in me breaks for this girl though. Just this once, I'm going to be the good guy, and win.
