2002-01-13 - 9:46 p.m.
There are no great revelations and the silver linings are only in fairy tales.
I flash on a brief cocktail party on the top of a hotel on Park Avenue South in the mid-30s. I kept peering over the edge of the roof. I kept looking at the concrete. Staring down. At the movement at the city at sure and literal signs that man does not totally regret life. (with thanks to Frank OHara for that line.) And my shoes hurt. Five. Maybe six years ago.
This morning it rained. And then it snowed. I put on a white tee and a black, tight wool sweater and didn't fix my hair or brush my teeth and I went to Dunkin Donuts. I drove in 1st gear the entire way because snow is snow and it's slick and I was the only one on the road even though it was 10 a.m. and I wonder now if the entire of Boston was at mass.
Two coffees. And I take mine black and hers with cream and a dozen assorted and I took a way home that I've never been before and a guy in a Subaru was backing into his drive and I had to wait for him and he hurried when he saw me which I thought was unusual because I was in no hurry.
Home and the Boston Globe and I read little things aloud while she did the crossword puzzle and the dog stared at the snow outside and occasionally barked to remind us of her presence and of the possibility of terror from the passing motorists.
Saturday night we had gone to the Puerto Rican restuarant up the corner and across the street and we went with another couple and talked about Playstations and. It wasn't that it was an ethnic restuarant. They weren't playing to an audience here. It was a Puerto Rican restuarant and nothing was designed for our tastes and we had never heard of much of any of it and we ordered it all. Including something known as a Monfango. I think. That was bits of fried pork stuck into a cylinder of mashed potatoes.
Sunday afternoon and I straighten the kitchen and call the family and call some friends and then we make our way to James' Gate and drink pints of Sam Winter and play Uno at the table in the corner. The same men who were at the counter last Sunday are at the counter this Sunday. We play Uno and eat our cheddar burgers and flirt with the Irish waitress and overtip her. Again. So she'll like us. And she flashes a smile. We order extra Guinnesses and talk. Whisper. To one another in the corner under the tv next to the fire.
To our home and CDs playing. The bedroom gets warm and my Girl comes over. And she does this thing when she leans down. Where she smiles. The bedroom gets warm and My Girl comes over and does this thing. When she leans down. Where she smiles. At me. And she wears this white tank t and she smells like our afternoon and the beginning of our nights and she leans down. And smiles. A weekend of love. At me.
Peering over the edge of a roof. Staring down. At the movement at the silk and sheets. At sure and literal signs that we neither of us. Do not totally regret life. (with thanks to Frank OHara for that line.) And. There are no great revelations and the silver linings are only in fairy tales. And this was just. Just a weekend. With my Girl.
