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Downslope from the house, somewhere in the dark, there's a mockingbird with a serious bout of unrequited love. How do I know? This one's been singing his brand of the blues since the sun went down (I assume it's a "him"). Nonstop. In this room, it's zydeco playing lowly through the speaker grilles. A crime, really... a music made for sweaty dancing. It could stand a lot more volume. Getting a mental picture of what tomorrow's playlist will be, I have the luxury of sitting here, in shorts and bare feet. Front door and windows open. A moment I've been waiting for, for quite some time. It may not be a silky night in Rio... but it'll do. Despite all of the things I could have accomplished (though I did manage to get the disassembly of the Miata soft top in motion), it's been more like a Saturday. Gin and tonics and shooting the shit in the afternoon at "Sir" Bill's house. A quick trip up the mountainside with the camera, without results. Leading to another sedate evening, punctuated by Miss Jane telling me that she'd already paid the deposit to vacation with her daughter, making plans to go back to her house in another week. In an uncharacteristically bold move during our argument on Sunday, she promised never to go to another club, or to ever to dance again. "Too old" and uninterested. More reasons to feel the untangling. But, I'm not going to allow it to blow away this atmoshere. There's just this barely perceptable breeze stirring the hair on the back of my legs. Rap on, bird. |
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