Seeing through the mists of sex, on occasion…
she kept a therapist’s sofa in her living room
backed by a dark oaken bookcase
mantled with a spill of white orchids
sizing me like sentient vaginas
I heard that story, a month ago, about some radio station in Ohio or somewhere proclaiming they’d banned any further airplay of “Baby It’s Cold Outside” due to its supposedly Neanderthal take on #me-too morays. Don’t really like the song that much, but my gut reaction was to organize a marathon podcast featuring every cover of the song I could find. Then a dream came a few nights later, resolving the matter in a different direction. Adapted below… it takes place probably somewhere in the mid 2030s.
Occasionally something impels me to puzzle through some enigma enclosed within a vignette from my youth, and invariably I turn to writing as the method. But once I start to immerse, I lose some control and it becomes more like managing a kite in a gale than steering a ship into the memory banks.
think I saw her 4 times
very first time, I kissed her mouth
completely unlike me