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Rare Instances of Sound Judgment


Rare Instances of Sound Judgment. Then and Now

 

Issue 1                                                                                                    Volume 1

 

Cleveland, Ohio. Early 80’s. A diner. She was 27? 28? Married. Five little kids. Five fucking kids! A dark Eastern European beauty with almond shaped eyes and a complexion like the way my mother took her coffee. Lots of cream.

 

I had stopped in on a Saturday after I’d been at Edgewater Park shooting pictures with what for the time was (and probably still is) a very expensive camera. A Leica M4P. Shots of gulls. The lake. The evening horizon aglow. I sat at the counter in the tiny diner still alert and alive from the bracing fall day and the sound of Erie erotically lapping at the breakwater still ringing in my ears.

 

What’s your name where do you live what do you do… she’s all over me. Sharing every detail of her life. Sharing too much. Ready to shed the apron and the cheap dress and the tacky ring and maybe even the kids. My own personal gypsy whore if I had wanted. At the peak of my power with my young good looks and good job and good money and good camera.

 

Had a nose for trouble then and knew where and when and what it was when I found it and took it or left it at my whim.

 

The scent of her disappointment followed me out the door and I knew that the substantial tip was far less than she was fishing for and as I went to find a drink I imagined the swarthy, disappointing husband who had better fill her with the sixth in a hurry because that was his only hope of keeping her.

 

###

 

Soft curves like a Sunday drive in the country. A sleepy murmur as I clasp her hip and pull myself close so I can bury my face in her thick hair and draw in the aroma that only she.

 

And only she

And only she

Possesses

 

Awakened, she slips from the bed and pads on little feet with perfect toes that look the way you would draw them in art class. Shapely slender legs carrying her to the bathroom. I reach over to touch the warmth of her pillow and wonder in which lifetime she’ll return to snore or mumble nonsense or crowd me to the edge of the bed and make me smile in my luxurious discomfort.

 

Up early while she sleeps late. Aroused by every mislaid ponytail tie and bobby pin and pantie on the floor. Coffee brewing, watching a somber and brooding building backed by  the grey morning sky. Waiting for her to rise so that I might live again.

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