Sinful Pleasures

I am living my life of everyone’s quiet desperation, and I glance over my shoulder. Ah, no one is noticing me here in their midst. I think I’ll indulge myself—for just a minute—in the unspeakable: looking into the abyss. I don’t know what yours looks like, but mine is better than Hawaii. It’s soft and either completely dark or a silver mist. It cradles, embraces, infuses, and pleasures me. I see myself doing this perfect swan dive into the mists and floating through silk. I run my tongue over my lips and there is a ginger sweet crust that bursts into flavor that somehow isn’t a taste at all but a sensation of speciality. I have a clarity of hearing that is more than sound. Like the first time I heard June Christy do vocal riffs on a Stan Kenton recording or Sting in this winter’s new album (which I hope to get for Christmas).

Of course, I must rise back from this fantasy of perfection. Afterall, who will make the sarcastic comments on the holidays? Who will answer the son back when he tests his waters of irony? And then, the kitties. Oh well, Rhett, tomorrow is another day!