Sunday, February 23, 2014

Week in Seven Words #204 & 205

Pearls of dark chocolate and mint, spilled onto Purelled hands.

Haven't we had this conversation before? In our respective chairs, one of us talking more than the other?

I take a dialect quiz (focusing on pronunciation, and certain vocab and expressions), and the results are supposed to tell you what region of the US you're from. As it turns out, the way I speak fits closest to these three cities: San Jose, Fremont, and Honolulu. Also, I'm generally a very strong fit with Long Island, NY. Given that I was born in California and spent close to six years of my life in southern California, then the rest of my childhood on Long Island, these are pretty accurate results.

The days are slight, as thin as fingernails.

Embers in me that I want to coax back to life.

The animals have one corner of the floor; the plants have the other. In his world, at this time, they can't mingle.

"Are you with someone?" he asks, his eyes scanning the room, fishing for additional prospects. "Yes," I say. "If it doesn't work out," he immediately says, in a business-like tone, "could I be the first one to know? Let me know, right after." Yep. That's exactly what I'm going to do. The first thing I'll think of in the aftermath of a break-up is you. And I do in fact get his business card, with two phone numbers. His customer service skills are impeccable.

This is the kind of cold that scrubs away at your cheeks like steel wool.

I don't know how they do it - plunge into the cold water without their hearts stopping.

The space beneath my desk is very cold. I could chill wine in there, where the heat hasn't made its way.

Deft fingers on the mandolin and a rough and honest voice. Magnificent.

A sky like gray silk.

They're a married couple with no apparent chemistry. No shared looks, no laughter in their eyes, just a tiredness in the way they move and talk to each other. As if they'd always rather be in different rooms. There's no sense of what's holding them together except for social acceptableness.

Hours of poetry, some earnestly awful and some of it beautiful. It's been a while since I had the pleasure of listening to poetry read out loud. Even the bad poetry sounds better read out loud.