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When I think of her, I wait for that feeling from the first time -- that bitter sadness rising in my throat. It doesn't come. The closest thing is the jealousy of knowing that sooner or later her passions will be directed at another. And the confusion at how she romanticized our breakup more openly than any aspect of our relationship, her magnum opus laid out in public to receive the trite sympathies of outsiders. Sure, I have my own appetite for the maudlin, but there are limits.
And my need to flirt, entice and fuck. Is it just an elaboration of my need to know that I can displace her from my mind? Does that matter? She's left her mark and all I can do is paint it over. That's what she wanted, after all.
Clouds like thin, bumpy stucco this morning, scraped across the flat blue winter sky.
posted on Saturday, December 11, 2010
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The sensation of snowflakes alighting on my eyelashes almost makes the cold weather worthwhile.
Batter lapping into the flour-dusted pan. Acrid cinnamon and perfume of cloves, and nutmeg and allspice somewhere in between. The oven warms the kitchen as I wait for the gluten knitting into strands and clots, the caramelizing pumpkin, the swelling gas bubbles stretching the toroid along its axis. The premature crust bursts slowly, striae becoming tears and splits. The sharp, direct odors of the batter blend into a continuous spectrum of promises. Knife comes out clean.
And now, much later, I'm making a late-night snack -- grilled cheese on pumpernickel. So many reminders of her.
posted on Saturday, December 04, 2010
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