Vacant Heart Arbor

Inevitable just occured. Had the long, overdue run in with Swissy-Missy. "You cut your hair. I really liked your long hair." It was one of those hollow conversations between two people who have been inside each other who just stare at the ground and scrutinize each other's shoes. We made direct eye contact maybe once. We nodded a lot. We didn't embrace. Unlike my spiritual sistuh's loving assesment a few weeks back that "david is david is always david" I was off. I couldn't think of anything witty, charming, dapper to say. In fact, I couldn't be more OFF if I used mosquito repellent for cologne. She walked into Jester's, appeared before my face. I ruffled the paper and inopportunely flapped open to the obituaries. I asked about her school. She inquired about my writing.It was like we were standing on a broken down pier watching that vessel that was once our bodies tow off into the oceanic horizon. Eventually all that existed of potentially "us" turned out to be nothing more than a crusty, nocturnal fleck unconsciously batted from the lids of her eyes with an errant finger.

To compound matters, I was with my friend SARA. I like her a lot cause she's from a rustic, southern Illinois town. She's gentle and kind with a benevolent heart. She teaches elementary school children how to use please and thankyou and the linguitic coating that separates and a vowel from a consonant. Sara's no where near the S.M. rock-star-muse caliber, no where near the calloused slants creviced on the far end of my left palm. But her smile makes me feel special.

Anyway, after the S.M. altercation, I kept calling sara Clare. I have no reason why. It was clare. I called her Clare three times.

"She's just a friend, Clare. Sorry, Sara."

Mistuh D sulks too much. Loves too much. wants too much. Mistuh D needs to focus on his writing and try not get hurt.