I decided to build a fire, it is a cold, wet Sunday. The red wood woodpile looks beautiful wet and glowing orange and red, like a beautiful sunset, or driftwood. Flames. Or molten, amber glass. I think there was even steam. It seemed such a pity to burn any of it. But the ground was freezing and I had gone out there with no shoes on, what was I thinking? It was like standing on ice, as I admired the hues of the lumber, jumping from one foot to the other.
Toes commencing sensory shut down. Balls of feet freezing over.
A lazy day at home. Washing. Writing. Looking at a few blogs.
Max still hasn't made contact. Grrrr! And I've smoked the entire packet of mixing cigarettes I bought in anticipation. Rats! How quickly it all slides down the toilet.
I love rainy Sundays, they are some how soul satisfying. Hopeful in their quiet reassurance. A pause. Stop. Maybe, they take me back to childhood. Maybe, they are unpressured in their very nature, nothing has to get done, other than sustenance and warmth. Like being in the womb? The day the pressure is let out of the balloon, if just for a moment.
Some hours later...
Max called. Crisis over.
Swagger. Black hair. Big, brown eyes. Cheeky smile. Confidence for days. Nothing is a problem. Turns up when he turns up, no excuses. "I got caught up with Stella and her brother George." He pulls his hands back towards his crotch, several times. "Friday night." Smiles. Handsome. Flawless, olive skin. The whites of his eyes glow, seemingly, with his smile, as he winks his goodbye.
Who wouldn't have sex with Josh Lawson? Thank God you're here, I'd say to him.
I realised that I could, actually, run my life from my bedroom, judging from this weekend, such is the state of my social life.
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