HOT GARBAGE

Should I do something? “I ask the question like there is an answer that will give me purpose, drive, or acceptance. The dry brown blood on my Versace shirt draws unwanted attention to the half-truth that is; I’m one of the culprits.

How I see life today is a painfully distorted view reflected from the cold metallic surface of handcuffs, as they embrace the frail wrists of a 26-year-old child who but hours ago was shouting “FREEDOM!” at the top of her lungs, not doubting her decision to stand up and fight.

“Stand up and fight.” Her voice is like a chocolate sundae with hazel nuts and a hint of mint, her eyes remind me of a dam wall, holding back a torrent of emotions that she herself cannot explain.

We met on a Tuesday, a day that my emotions were drown down by the beat of feet on pavement, a day the colour of blueberry pancakes. There was no lightning, no thunder, no sparkling lights or griping music, there was just a moment. A moment of realization, of clarity, of knowing that the person whose eyes you are looking into will forever be in your heart. With gold for hair, peaches for lips and steal in her eyes I met her. Her chocolate voice pulling me out of the monotone of my existence into a region uncharted, a space not defined. I met her under hot garbage; the sign held over her head, with petit arms the colour of wheat ready for harvest.

“Hello”, shit! Wish I could have said something more exotic like Ola or something, something that would show more of my personality. ‘‘Hot garbage?’’ Now that’s what I should have said, that would have shown that under the grey two-piece suite, lies a man with a great sense of humour, and behind the prescription glasses, lies a mind that welcomes creative spontaneity, and behind the nervous smile, lies a mouth that enjoys the taste of fresh pineapple juice and a cold beer on Saturday afternoons.

Hello. Damn, I might as well have said “I’m a looser, spit on my face if you want.”

In the blue and black fog of my thoughts the chocolate drips into my consciousness, my mind races trying to figure out what she has been saying for the past seconds.

“Excuse me?” What a day full of cock ups.

“I axed do you want a pamphlet.” Her eyes are molten lava burning a hole through the thick walls that surround my thoughts.

“Yeah sure, I’ll take one.” As she hands me the A5 pamphlet, her black nail polish glistening in the October sun, I kick myself for not saying something that would have prolonged the conversation. Conversation, ha, I laugh at the foolishness of my thoughts. The only conversation that took place was the insignificant one that took place in my mind. It was 08:03, and I still had fifty-seven minutes and 33 seconds before I had to finalise Rodgers’ take-over bid, though that would take me two, but no words, no matter how immaculate, could put across the fact that she made Lucas Luther’s’ world stand still.

I walked. Through the pain and shame I walked. With the heavy molten reminisce of my heart I walked, down the road and around the block, I walked. Only the muse herself could explain the torment I felt inside, and fuck it, she owes me that much. How dare she make me feel this way, what makes her think that she can hold the fate of mans pride in her hands. I hate, I love her, and I want her.

The route around lasts a second and once again I am face to face with a goddess. Her face the same crystal orb into which my future lies so clear,

“Hey”

By – M