Thursday, June 17, 2010
Alone in the car after a mind-numbing day, away from the endless rush of I-want-I-need-Do-Do-Do, I take a moment.
I take a moment as I poke out tabs in a parking coupon and think of you.
Remembering the way my insides felt when I first heard the guitar, heavy on distort.
Remembering you saying: "I like the way these drums sound," Rachel Yamagata oozing from the speakers, the air-conditioning cold on my shoulders.
You, holding my hand, palm up, the way you always do, laughing about something as you look at me askance, or that time when you mimicked a bush baby or some equally possumish creature with the large, perpetually surprised round eyes and we fell about laughing because you looked like you were falling asleep, you giving me your cupcake because mine was dry and tasteless.
Lonely in the car, I take a moment, then the moment takes me.