The Mundane as Distraction

I furiously want to write about my love; about the roaring fire in my chest, my gut, my brain. I don’t want to be consumed, at least not to seem consumed. So let me tear my narrative free from the one name repeated over and over.

I walked in the park. In the grass lay a dog turd. Fresh and steaming. The black dog ran after its owner, who gave the poo no mind.

A child drawing on the pavement with a fresh piece of charcoal. I watched her. Concentrated, she dragged her new black line behind a thrifty ant. Haphazard patterns emerged. She looked up at me. I smiled, her eyes reminded me of…no not going there!

A group of five sat at a table under a khaki canopy. I sat at the next table and listened in as they conversed; meandering from one topic to the next. One man’s wife had bought a new head scarf which he hated, but had to pretend he loved. Laughter all round. “Like the coffee here!” Another said; more laughter. In that hour I heard much about the city of Vairostai. Much more still to learn.

In the dust, half hidden under a crumpled page, I found a coin. It was useless to me. Foreign. On my way home I passed the black fading scribbles on the pavement. The little girl was gone. I hid the coin in a pile of pebbles she had left behind. Her eyes had been like a dream. Like those of Z…. No not thinking that.

An itch on my back irritated me. It was out of reach of my nails. I rubbed my back against a post. A couple looked at me quizzically, amused.

At home I kicked off my shoes by the door. Grabbed my writing gear and sank into the green chair by the window.

In the green chair I now sit. I am staring at the blank part of the page below this. I know what I desire to write there, but I don’t want to seem obsessed.