To be clear, I seriously hate this piece of writing. But it’s Friday at the end of an excruciating week and I have been awake for sixteen hours, so it’s all that’s gonna happen.
In the morning you will walk into the kitchen and see me. I will be standing at the table slicing rinds of watermelon, the knife dripping with pulp and juice running from my fingers. I will be wearing a red skirt that at first glance reminds you of our first night together, red for passion cascading through us, heat and haze and hot breath. My shirt will be blue to match the summer sky, a shimmering heat of life and light. Music will be playing, perhaps a jazz song from long ago, and it will bind that moment in time.