Like the taste of sperm, she imagined the air outside would be too salty and unpleasantly thick. Like if you wove your hands into the air like you did when you were a child, making little flying machines with each finger, you could take pieces of the fog away from the atmosphere in the firmament. She romanced the idea of holding fog and went outside in spite of the swarming grey that overcame the ocean, making the water almost invisible and the sand swarm in small tornadoes of dusty particles that floated above garbage pails and smelled of sea-foam. There was no one outside and she reveled in the moment of complete isolation like few are not clever enough to do. Her hair down, blowing over her face in moist ringlets from the pitter-patter of the sky was like a blurry daydream, or a deja vous she swore she once had but couldnÂ’t quite grasp. And if she had the nerve she would have taken off her dress and run naked in the sand right there, without anyone watching but the equally nude swans that gazed in her direction. But her inhibitions stifled her pleasures and she slowly walked with the next best thing of bare feet and wove her fingers through the dusty air. And nothing got accomplished, and her clothing soaked through, and she stumbled over pebbles that sunk painfully into her soles, but the noisy ring of nothingness enveloped her, so that she became a part of the storm she was riding, and the whispers of the waves reassured her that whatever direction she was headed, sheÂ’d get there if she just kept walking weary against misguided souls.

06/21/2005

Posted on 06/21/2005
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