Saturday In Three Scenes

2011 April 17

I ended up seated across from a reporter.  He asks if he can write a profile on me. I try to be vague and gracious in my refusal, but I know I just sound rude.  The conversation ends there. He pockets his notebook and pointedly turns away. That’s the last I see of him.


We can’t find the firehall. We keep passing each other on the country road. Slow down, reverse, roll our windows down and shrug. The map is useless.  We eventually settle on the only building with more than two cars parked in front of it. My heels sink into the gravel lot. It’s too bright and I can’t stop shivering.


The straw in my gin and tonic keeps getting stuck to my lip gloss.  We are having the familiar conversation, Generic Breeze Shooting in A Minor.  It’s call and response. I don’t know. I don’t know. Tracing a pattern on my coaster, nodding along. I settle my share while he’s in the men’s room. I tell him I’m going to buy measuring spoons. When we leave, it’s still too bright and I’m still shivering.

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