Overcast, 84 degrees. No breeze. Hot coffee, good tunes. Drifting through the fog of a fantastic, dreamy mood. Rain, or the hope thereof, gets me clear every time. Reprieve; let’s write.
Then, the sprinkling begins. Creosote in the air. Humidity climbs. We should go on holiday, he thinks. But, just in town. A lovely, bitty jaunt away from our relentless summer months in Tucson. She’s magical, but life got in the way this afternoon. Can we dance tonight, babe, he asks. Either to remember or forget, your call, love.