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By Misti Date: 2003 Oct 11 Comment on this Work [[2003.10.11.01.42.13285]] |
| They were there and they were happy and they did not want to be anyplace else. They were surrounded by fragrant fallen oranges and a sky that couldn't decide between periwinkle and orchid and nibbling whispering azure waves and miles of sunset cooled virginal white sand. He was seventeen but he could have been eighty and she was seventeen, too, but she could have been twelve. The world was their faded Bert and Ernie blanket. The world was their radio playing a succession of blissed out songs."Warmth of the Sun." "Crimson and Clover." "Over the Hills and Faraway." "Sunshine of Your Love." "Happiness is a Warm Gun." "Regulator." "Drain You." "1979." "Let's Go Crazy." "Panama." The world, specifically, was their chilled bottle of peach chardonnay and basket of ripe nectarines and black seedless grapes. In their world there were no Fuck You(s) or Suck My Dick(s) or God, Sometimes I Really Miss My Ex(es). And there was no pollution or war or corporate gluttony or incest or child pornography. There were no smiling snake supervisors, either, or lists of flaws and failed expectations. For them the world was new and thirst-quenching and not yet peed in. Maybe there was a glint of desire but it wasn't urgent. It wasn't begging for crumbs from a decadent banquet. They were together in an airtight lullaby and that was sufficient. They breathed each other in. Sometimes they spoke. Maybe it was nonsense but it didn't matter because they didn't need a translator. They surfed the same warped wavelength and did not bang their shins on the coral reef. They had an eternity of unfeigned ebullience in three slow hours. Of course it would be destroyed and vacated because it was Eden, after all. There are snakes and burning angels and jealous gods who hate to witness love in such unashamed purity. There is a world of tourists outside the tiger cage who have cameras and lawyers and a million and one stinging fire ant fears who were programmed to never leave well enough alone. |