caveat emptor

Her. Her and Him.

She plays outside with him whatever the weather, sometimes in yesterday's hair, sometimes in shiny, fancy regalia. When the money is short, she buys him the handful of foods he will eat and forages for herself. She does all this because he is more than other people understand to her. He is the other half of her soul. He showed up to take care of her just in time. Sometimes he plays nearby and she rakes the shoreline, washes the clothes, mops the kitchen. But he is never far from her thoughts. They ride scooters. They draw pictures on the sidewalk. She knows how to make him laugh like no one else. She wrestles him sleepy. She makes him Poptarts (the tops only) and sees him to school. She celebrates hooky days when she senses the changing weather is frazzling his nerves. She doesn't care anymore if you understand them. She has given up on most of us ever getting it. They get each other. They deserve each other. Figure it out if you can. They don't have time to explain. Too many adventures await.

Hello, friends. I hope you’re well.

Later. Love.

Waif

She prefers the mild winter or fall because she loves the way she looks and feels with high black boots hugging her legs and the swish and sway of long, light jackets or sweaters. Her best friend has long, full, dark hair that hangs around her face and shoulders like mystery and seduction so beautifully she almost falls in love with her friend on a regular basis and she thinks she would love to grow her hair out like that, a warm cover of cascading beauty, but she always keeps her hair cropped close in pixie-short cuts that leave her slender neck for showing the scarves she loves too much, she thinks, the scarves she owns in questionable numbers, she often feels, bright and light and billowy. Her favorite day is walking blustery sidewalks alone from shops to cafes to boutiques, one or two small bags, no great burden, with some new, lively treasures. Her favorite feeling is words, just a few, with some new stranger. She always tries to put love and praise into what she says. She never wants to discourage or hurt the way they did to her for all that time, long behind, in dingy, smokey rent houses she never lets herself remember. She wants to see eyes light up or smiles, always from a distance, a few feet away, not close enough to touch, to hurt. At night she lies alone and listens to the endless stream of music recommended for her by sweet, innocent Leo. She doesn't like it or dislike it, she just wants to hear it, to feel it, like sheets on her sensitive skin. People see her on the sidewalk and smile. Her friend loves the feeling of her fingers playing forgetfully in her long, dark hair as they talk of the easy nothing much that happens each day. Leo loves her but will never let her know. She falls asleep and dreams of floating naked in a warm, bottomless sea. Love songs whisper her far away.

Hello, friends. I hope you're well.

Later. Love.

Tough Day

I was a little surprised to see an octopus sitting at the bar, to be honest with you, but I acted cool about it. I try to be open minded, you know? I just took my normal seat - two stools over from the large cephalopod - and ordered my usual, Glenfiddich, neat. I sat there quietly, looking at my phone a little and humming along to the music.

"Tough day?" the octopus said after a minute.

I glanced over to see if it was talking to me, realizing quickly that I was too unfamiliar with octopus anatomy to tell for sure. "What's that?" I asked casually.

"Tough day?" it asked again.

"Not really," I lied. "Why do you ask?"

"I was just noticing your coloration. You're showing a kind of down color." It turned to face me a little, I think.

"My coloration?"

"Yeah. Coloration."

"I'm always this color," I said, pretty sure I was right.

"Really?" It sounded surprised. It turned slightly blue.

"Yeah," I said.

"Oh, well, my mistake then." It turned a little bit green and moved back into a position facing away from me, I think.

We sat there for a few minutes in silence. I sipped my drink. It picked up its beer with a tentacle and pulled it into some hole and drank it, I can only assume. "Truth is, it has been a bit of a tough day." I said after a minute. I waited for a response, but It didn't reply or turn toward me. It just turned slightly orange and reached for another beer.

Hello, friends. Tough day?

Later. Love.

The Road

There's a road at the edge of town that only a few of us know and if you take it your sorrows and your fears and all your weary years cannot come with you. At the end of the road is a swimming hole, clear and deeper than anyone knows. By the time you get there you're a kid again, bewildered and excited in your swimming suit. It's always a hot summer day. The water is always cool but not cold. When you jump in you don't have to hold your breath or close your eyes. You can laugh under the water. You don't have to come up until you want to, maybe to lie on your towel on the bank in the sun and dry off. Every touch and every look is innocent there. You might lie beside a girl or a boy. If you kiss or hold hands, it's only sweet and simple and fleeting. You might just talk or stare up at the clouds. You might, once you're dry, look for fossils or shells or dive back in the bottomless pool. It's light all the way down, and full of wonders. However long you stay, you're never late getting back. I know where this road is. What do you say?

Hello, friends. I wish so badly that this were true. I really, really do. Sorry.

Later. Love.