Thursday, 18 March 2010

Sun's Going Down, Glasgow, Scotland. [(c)Jason Hill]

In the sights of an unsleeping eye. Like looking down into the piping of a long barrelled pistol. I knew I was in trouble once I smelled her skin. Like new summer, fresh cut grass. I waited across the street, but in windows view as she mopped the floors, emptied the cash register and locked the back doors. Its raining out and I cant help but wonder how her skin might smell from the rain. Like a wet dog or like raindrops on a tulip. I tell myself a soaked mutt so I will just move on. No chance though. I'm hooked. A poor fish on a hook, wrong place at the wrong time. I'm stuck. The air around her is too thick to move. I'm cookie dough now, and she's the baker. Normally I might be the drain to her faucett but now I'm clogged, filling up, going to flood over the basin and make it even harder to move. Suddenly she pulls her overshirt off, a tan dress with red and black floral patterns underneath. I pretend she does it for me. Time to go. She's off from work. Should I follow? Her eyes caught mine just once. Did it mean something to her too? What to do. If I wait too long I'll ruin my chance. Can't seem timid. Can't seem desperate. But I feel I am. I know it will consume me. Her eyes watching me while I sleep, when I daydream, in every sound I hear I will hear what I think her voice may be. It's raining harder now, the time smoothed cobble stone streets of Glasgow beneath my feet. She seems to float. She's out the door, a grey wool like coat over that dress. Flat red shoes. She looks hurried. Looks toward me for almost a moment, her eyes too shy to meet mine. Almost a smile, her teeth scratch her naked soft lips. I feel my legs moving toward her, but I'm not. The airs too thick to move. I can hear my heart beating, sounds like a kick drum in a small cramped room. Boom boom, boom boom, boom boom. Can't breath deep. Only short pulls of thick air. Too thick to move and she's gone. J.H

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