Talking with the devil.

Last night I lazily sprawled across the couch. It was humid enough to make my skin sticky. The breeze came in glad hand gusts. The ceiling fan was set on high, but even it seemed to be covered in molasses, turning slowly, a torturous rack.

I had a blue down blanket propped under my head. One leg thrown over the back of the couch, the other falling off, toes touching hardwood. I quaffed my Newcastle down with little regard to it being the last bottle. Keeping the sweating bottle pressed in the crook of my neck.

The condensation pooled near my collar bone and I dreamt of the south. Marshy lands and river cities. Of time that is more than an illusion. Of blues being sung while sitting in rickety chairs, older than me. Of those dark skinned old men who’ve seen it all with their pale palms.

The TV was on, wanting me to buy things. I zoned it out, too lethargic too move. I let my head fall off of the couch. The condensation dripping onto the floors. I lift my shirt and put the bottle to my belly. Jumped at first, then welcomed the next.

A foot away I notice a freed feather that escaped from the blanket. Due to the wind of the fan, and the breeze through the windows and door it danced around an eight inch lap. I kept my eyes on it, figuring it wouldn’t last long. I lay that way for a long while.

Two hours pass and I’m long out of beer watching that feather go round and round. I wonder if it’s winning. If it’s dizzy. If it’s running from something. If it’s an intelligent feather or retarded. Did he have a goober voice? “Which way did he go George, which way did he go?”

Sometimes it spiraled upwards, just to spiral back down. But mostly, it just kept running its lap. Much like life, I thought to myself… Lou turned in her sleep, grunting. As if my thoughts were stirring her slumber.

Right then, a tall man walked into my house. I asked if he brought beer. I was in luck. He popped it open because I feared getting up and having the blood rush to my head. I had a comfortable thing going, I was watching a good show.

The beer stayed on my tummy, except for when it was against my lips. This time the condensation pooling in my belly button. Part of me felt like a child, save for the whole alcohol bit.

Tall man paid attention to the TV. I decided I wouldn’t tell him what he was missing. His loss. He couldn’t always have it spelled out.

I watched my show, he watched his. The heat becoming a little too personal with us.

—

(This makes me long for fire season on the Santa Ana’s.)