The rain is soaking the bottom of your khaki pants to a dark mud color. I huddle closer to you, closer to the umbrella haven that offers your chest as my casement tonight. And as much as I don’t want to be here again, as much as I hold my own candle light vigils, my own sit-ins at the laugh factory, the same drawn out, flower and box of candy corny scene takes place. I swallow deep the dry aspirin of emotions that I am trying to choke down as you nuzzle my forehead and press yourself down upon my head, weighing heavily against the thick cloud of my brain.

You’re rambling on and on with civil and literal arguments for and against this union. Tonight, your words soak me deeper than any hair frizzing storm could. All of your quotes float freely from your dry lips as you stare blankly into the distance, ever searching, ever pondering, and ever regretting your inability to get us to a start. But a start, a jolt, an electric episode of passion, lust, God damn, maybe even love will never amount, because you’re painting this scene tonight with a box of Crayolas, and out of the forty-eight colors in every storybook shade you could imagine you selected to paint this scene in one color alone: drunk

And the smell of bourbon and of other women who are probably in your eyes more attractive than me, better than me in bed, weighs down now as the wind feels we need more spectacle in this Shakespearean soap-on-a-rope opera of a scene and blows your stench back in my face, slapping me with the ever present truth that I never would admit that I want to admit in the first place. You’re caught up in a tangent now something about your political views or some other bull shit on how you could save the earth if you only had a million dollars. What did my mother used to say, a million dollars and a pot to piss in? Oh, dearest how I would love to piss on you now. I would love to put an end to this. I am sure there are more suitable ways, perhaps more tasteful than an eruption of bodily fluids on your crinkle resistance khaki Dockers, but at present moment, in this pouring rain, trying to get to a start while the only things present are your bourbon finished sentences, my thought process are dull and so are you.

Then suddenly the Postman delivers a present wrapped tightly in a khaki colored box to our front stoop and off we go, finally flowing, rhyming, dawning and plotting all over each other. The exhilaration of bright lights, water soaked diamonds, and rubies speed past us, or more like we speed past them defying gravity, defying time, defying each other’s laws. It is a vision from God, from the heavens above that not only delivered this downpour and soaked khakis tonight, but also salvation in the form of a bright yellow taxi that served as out Liberator tonight. This damn cab did all that we wished to do when you were sober and I wasn’t a bitch, and here we are, you clinging to me like a little boy clings to his mother’s skirt hem and me relishing in it. You love me don’t you? You worship me, right now, in the present tense, you’re word choice is so sloppy, but so impractical and idealistic, and you’re eyes so blue and breath so hot with bourbon. I try out my hand in yours and you kiss my neck and immediately I’m saying “I do”, and you’re saying you love me, and dancing drunkenly at our fiftieth wedding anniversary while our kids and grandkids look at us with Jesus and hope and faith and all that bull shit we forced fed them through Hal-mark cards.

Oh God, How I love it! We’re flying now, hoping and hollering, cannons are blazing and you choke back vomit and I laugh. It is sick and twisted how wrapped up we are in each other and the cab and the imminent sex and Charles Dickens and Darwin and Daffy Duck and all the other obscure references that flash past this God damn cabbie like fish frying in a pan. It is like we’re transported into that scene from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory where they are on that sick swan ship, flying past psychedelic bull shit and spacey crap and the little bitch complains about wanting a golden swan or something. God I can’t stop laughing and you can’t stop complaining about being sick and the cabbie can’t stop shooting us with dirty looks and god I need this lay and waited all night for something to erupt and now probably half a bottle of booze later you’re sloppily hard and I’m soberly slutty.

And here we are. I fling the driver a crumpled up bill, and he mutters for us to get a room, and we dodge bullets of bitter lovers as we run to my door. I feel like I am doing every drug you went to jail for simultaneously now, and I fumble with the keys as you fumble with the buttons on my blouse, not recognizing it is a turtleneck. Passion had no time card until we punched in tonight. You start to moan my name as we rush up the stairs, and I could barely hear how you called me the wrong name or realize how the letters of my actual named never seemed to meet your vocabulary tonight and touch your lips as much as bourbon and cigarettes did.

Your khakis hit the floor of my bedroom. Introductions and revisions of this lust affair will happen tomorrow.

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