A natural and wholesome being,
freckles and everything,
wearing a satin dress with no sleeves and eating a peach on some balcony.
Me.
The juice of the fruit trickles down my long fingers.
“I should’ve brought a serviette.”
Surrounding me are establishments ambling up to the skies.
A cluster of clouds endows the scene with a bit of character.
I glance over my shoulder into the carpeted hotel room.
I spy my temporary bed and permanent belongings.
Onto another fantasy:
I live alone at the edge of the world, savouring my little cottage.
My home, all red and wooden and warm.
On the backs of chairs and on my sofa lay welcoming fabrics spread in no specific pattern whatsoever,
configured like paint fallen from a brush.
Nearby,
a meadow.
“Hello nature.”
The wildflowers lean over my blanket to greet me in response. Their leaves and buds sway in the wind.
A third and final scenario, which also happens to be the most realistic:
It’s dinner time in winter.
Snow falls quietly onto my windowpane.
I’m cooking.
I evaluate the quality of the music playing over the speakers in the background.
Not yet perfect.
“What next?”
“How Do I Know,” by Here We Go Magic.
Wine time.
The wrong one again.
No-one here to point out my mistake.
Dance I want to and dance I do.
The soft sweater supports me.
My top rests like an unlicked ice cream cone at the head of my camel colored khakis.
I dance some more.
My socks slide along the ridges of the heated flooring.
I’m ice skating.
An inside version of the day before.
“Oh shit.”
The water’s boiling over!
WAST WRTNG 