How utterly bizarre. I am, of course, referring to yesterday's post. Not really sure where that came from, but being as I was on the brink of exhaustion, staring down its gaping jaws and throat, perhaps I was contemplating falling and dreaming. I doubt very much the possibility of another stream of consciousness collision like yesterday's occurring in this post. I had something that I specifically wanted to write in here today. It was earlier in that day, as I sat banging away on my computer at work, when the most remarkable idea for an entry came crashing into my consciousness. And I thought, "I better write this down lest I forget." And then I didn't write it down and I have since forgotten it entirely. Vanished without a trace back into the ether from whence it came. That is always so frustrating. Almost like my muse is fishing for a writer to document her ideas and she sends them down into the depths of my conscious mind to see if she can hook me. Sometimes she sets it deep and lands me quickly, and other times she teases me with the bait and then reels it in, packs it up and goes off in search of other quarry.
Now it's time to write a story. I'm not really sure how it goes. Bear with me if I stray from my subject, but seeing as I don't know what that is, you will have to have total and utter faith in me until we find one.
Yesterday I kissed a girl. It may have been the first time. It felt new and natural. It made me want to do more than kiss her, but all of the interesting attractions were closed, and besides that, I think my banter on Van Gogh would have bludgeoned her aesthetic senses. I felt as though I prattled on for the majority of the evening, only stopping to kiss her. We drove round in circles about the city while our conversation, or my conversation, careened headlong through the evening.
What was it you said about marmalade last night over dinner? My mouth was full and my head was emptying its thoughts to absorb every aspect about our waitress that it could fathom without asking her to remove her apron and dance. You tried to communicate over spared ribs and Caesar's salad and I was dining on fantasies when it happened. The rest of the evening you smiled and held my hand and even kissed me on occasion, pulling my face close to yours to plant a kiss on my still conversing lips. I imagine it was a reflexive action of your ears, when having too much thrown at them, to silence the noise in any manner possible.
Last night my banter may have blinded my senses, but I can still smell you this morning. You worked your way into my skin without my notice, slipping stealthily between the words to plant a little of yourself to grow on me. I'm sorry I missed the process. It must have been quite a feat dodging my repartee, getting close to me unnoticed, and making off with my sweatshirt at the end of the evening. Don't think I didn't notice.
And when I walked you to your door all you said was, "Shhh" before you kissed me and said goodnight.