Creature of the Night
“What’s the story morning glory?”
Light was coming in through the tears in the curtains as she tried opening her eyes. It was Tuesday morning. Or was it Wednesday? She hadn’t remembered how she got inside. The car keys and hand bag had spilled onto the floor. 10:00AM. What was there to do today?
“Do I work?” she said to herself as she tried to make sense of mess she was calling Tuesday morning. Or was it Wednesday?
“What did we do last night?” Did it matter? It didn’t. Life had become a series, a cycle an infinite repeat of indulgent excess. “Pour me another; I can do one more, cut it up; I was dipping into the bag all night.” These words were now regularly on deck and in rotation.
She had gone home with one of her regulars. She didn’t tend a bar or work at a restaurant. She liked men and men liked her and she knew how to get them. She was an unattainable, insatiable force of nature. A cold blooded, absent minded wreck of a person that was wanted and needed by what seemed to be anyone she met. This life sucking chameleon was the best and the worst of everything you could ever want to experience and she was just waking up.
“What’s the story morning glory?” I asked as she slowly sat up.
It’s never who you think it is.
My bed is half empty or half full. Hands by themselves are unfinished puzzles. Eyes can see forever when staring into others. Now, I’m looking for every reason to say something. Any way to get your attention. I just want to watch TV in your apartment and walk around your town. Drink until the sun comes up and fall asleep on the ground. But when I look in your direction my mind turns off. Leaving me defenseless as the gloves slide off. But you don’t even meet me in my dreams. This always sounds worse than it seems.