Reclining in a chair,. her long legs crossed. Riding up her maroon skirt. The living room afternoons at Dee's apartment. Lazy and serene. She takes opiate refuge from the intoxicating night prior to. Velvet curtains allow the sun to perish outside,..along the narrow city streets. The walkway to the landing,..that leads to the staircase. Beside the building mailboxes where unwanted bills and Sunday advertisements pile to the surface.
Smoking a cigarette,..she stares up at the ceiling fan,..revolving,..going nowhere,.. among the chipping paint. A steady breeze blows through her windows,.. left slightly ajar from the night before. Moving her thick nicotine stained drapes to the side,..then back again.
She recalls once an era,...where she thought she was content,..was she? No,...probably not. But so much better than today. She loved to paint with pastels,..the water colors of a time so remote and unfathomable,..it appears to be surreal. The naive simplicity of youth falls victim to the pain of adulthood and the sting of the needle.
I walk in at a quarter to four with a bag of beer that I picked up from the corner delicatessen. I know the process all too well. We greet each other. Our dialogue smoothed out by long windy spaces,..and delicate aching fingertips,..that reached out for a life where,.."I just don't want to feel anything"
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