The winter drizzle made the day a lot cooler. The past few days have been such a bust. I ventured out for a bit, bought supplies, indulged my photography needs, visited the bookstore I had spied a couple of blocks away from mine and even went to the fish market. I don't like fish. I cannot stand the smell. Reminds me of my mother and that dank, dark kitchen and my mother in that dank, dark kitchen, weeping to herself. Her tears must have flavored many a Sunday brunch, or that late Friday supper. She never did speak much. Always watching and waiting or waiting and watching from corners, quick to jump to orders, even mine. I loathed her self-deprecating manner and her quite bustling. It grated on my nerves like some loud, obnoxious music. How I hated her. And then she died, in that same dank, dark kitchen and that was the only day I remember crying. I didn't realize it until I saw that her face was tear stained and for a moment I thought she was crying at her deathbed as well. But I digress. Fishes. That's where I was. I had gone to the fish market to get fish for my pet cat. He's quiet for the most part, to the point that I sometimes forget he's even there until I notice a lump moving about on my couch under my black parka. A black cat under my black parka, he hates being photographed. I found him nibbling on one of my lens caps the other day.
After so much activity, I had been waiting to get back to my little, white window, with the chesterfield bare stool next to it. The telescope was a gift from an annoying ex girlfriend. She wanted to take it with her when she left but I managed to haggle it back from her. She took my television instead. At about 11 a.m. today, I finally spotted my lovely, walking into her living room. Her long legs dragged across the room in a lazy conversation with the floor, her white negligee stopping right above her thighs. Her black hair was mangled and fell in heavenly curls around her bare shoulders. From here, it looked like she was glowing like a lone street light on a deserted road. It looked like she was waiting for someone, because she kept looking at the door and she wouldn't sit down or stay still. And it had to be the boyfriend, yes? Because a woman like her could not be single. He walked right in, he must have the spare key. And she fell into his arms like a pack of cards. I'm not sure what I was supposed to feel but all I felt was a strange sense of euphoria at seeing her feel this happy and loved. They proceeded into the bedroom then and there my viewing pleasures ended because my scene was blocked by these huge red curtains. It was infuriating ,to say the least, but I doubt they were going in to the bedroom for a heart to heart conversation. I wonder if they'll ever fuck in the living room. I'm not sure I could watch. I'm not sure I want her to fuck at all. She needs to be kept in a long glass case, safe from the filth of this world, and nothing should touch her ageless beauty except the touch of my lips against hers.
I don't want to write anymore. I'd like to wait for them to come back out now.