Last Tuesday, I asked you to play the piano for me while I used the blender to blend inappropriate things. I knew the sounds you made would help drown out the mindnumbing echoes of my transgressions. Once you reached the chorus, like I knew you would, with the flawless movement of your little piggies, I would roll out the pink and blue carpet and ask you to watch me do somersault after somersault. My roll overs used to enchant you always and without effort.
"When we're done here, we can go upstairs and open all the drawers and then close them," I said.
"Why would we do such a thing?" you asked.
"Why not? Then we can wipe everything clean and work on the new versions of our poker faces. Am I right?"
"I suppose," you answered reluctantly.
"You suppose? You seem enthralled by all of this," I said with a bite.
Then you stopped playing long enough to look up at me and decide that we were now on opposite sides of the threshold. I was no longer your muse. It wasn't your eyes that were dying there in front of me. It was what they witnessed then and there.
I sighed and resigned to doing my cartwheels down the corridor. Far, far from you. But I could hear the change in your breathing. And I could make out the muted ricochets of the funeral you were holding, just there, in the wide open spaces of a sun drenched solarium.
It tough when we change directions and outlooks with the people we love!!!!!!!!!
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