My legs stride trails through woods and over moraine hills. When they traverse the granite plazas and concrete paths of the city, an ache like a hand around my ankle or a knife to my kneecap reminds me that a life is written in my body.
We drink a leisurely cocktail at a piano bar, tracking "Misty" and "I've Got You Under My Skin" through the forest of improvisation. I've selected a French martini: a martini because it seems so self-possessed in its silver shaker and elegant glass, unadulterated by sodas and tonics; Chambord because that is how we used to celebrate our friendship and romance; Moët champagne to honor this new year; and Grey Goose vodka because its name reminds me of marshes and lakes in the fog.
I sip mindfully, slipping into the coolness, welcoming the trickle that loosens my throat and my heart. Content, I rise to beat my languid way back to the street.
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1 comment:
No wonder that you and Pico are pals. Writers united.
azobox
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