afternoon of interest
First a late lunch at China House before escaping back to work through the secret back way that no one knows about. Two brownie cookies, two pieces of gum, and three cups of passion tea. Discussion of dating prospects. A joint departure party with cupcakes, doggerel, and cocktail nuts. Sixty pushups, four miles, and a walk to the river.
At Wilmer Park there was this girl running who looked like a movie star. She might have looked cool because I was high on praise from my realtor, who stopped me by the absent fountain with an update: "[The selling agent] was extremely impressed by your letter. She said it was the best she's ever read."
Behind the library I was pondering how perception leads to flattery when I stopped to study blossoms that were more seductive than the movie star runner. Clusters of azure tinged with purple, like the sky that looked absurdly photoshopped before the thunderstorm the previous day.
I passed an old lady in my neighborhood who, escorting her dog, smiled and pointed to a lawn with vultures sitting in the grass. It wouldn't have seemed strange except she seemed so happy about it.
I took a shower with the lights off, thinking about plans for the evening-watch Dr. No (last in a chain of Knocked Up, Music and Lyrics, Fast Food Nation, and Farce of the Penguins), write about the afternoon, read Wicked, and brew tea in my magical coffee machine.
If the protagonist were not ready for the adventure, there would be no story.
At Wilmer Park there was this girl running who looked like a movie star. She might have looked cool because I was high on praise from my realtor, who stopped me by the absent fountain with an update: "[The selling agent] was extremely impressed by your letter. She said it was the best she's ever read."
Behind the library I was pondering how perception leads to flattery when I stopped to study blossoms that were more seductive than the movie star runner. Clusters of azure tinged with purple, like the sky that looked absurdly photoshopped before the thunderstorm the previous day.
I passed an old lady in my neighborhood who, escorting her dog, smiled and pointed to a lawn with vultures sitting in the grass. It wouldn't have seemed strange except she seemed so happy about it.
I took a shower with the lights off, thinking about plans for the evening-watch Dr. No (last in a chain of Knocked Up, Music and Lyrics, Fast Food Nation, and Farce of the Penguins), write about the afternoon, read Wicked, and brew tea in my magical coffee machine.
If the protagonist were not ready for the adventure, there would be no story.