Buzzkill

a tall thick class of crystal clear water, liquid diamond.  ring ring ring the phone ring ring ring the ears.  i’ve got artichokes, salmon, mushrooms, and sundried tomatoes in my belly in my tummy.  supposed to wake up early but i’m supposed to sleep before it becomes early.  it’s 3 am.  3 am is good and solid middle of the night.  out on the sidewalk tonight i had a cigarette after getting home from dancing where i sweated a lot and some girl stopped dancing to tell me off because my hair was wet, “like a sprinkler.”  so the buzz went kill and the image police wrote me a ticket and after that it was a matter of little time before i left.  on my doorstep, actually on the neighbor’s porch steps where i sit, a pair of drunk acquaintances walked by, justifying my possession of tobacco – i offered them some.  yes, of course.  i rolled them cigarettes, me another.  we talked.  he’s from Ireland, keith, has been to morocco.  foresta, she answers to, and just turned drinking age; just threw up outside of a bar a twenty minute walk away.  sweet face.  keith was amiable and belligerent in a short term endearing way.  i wanted to invite them in.  another time.  she lives up the block.  is dear friends with Melissa down the hall and they know sam across the hall from Melissa.  sam is a resource – sweet sweet chiba – so that’s the connection.  i was folding a blanket the other day and remembered the girl.  “i hate you,” i said, then smiled.  tonight in amoeba records Jackie saw a cd of her ex-dear love.   there he was right there on the cover, mister sunspot jones.  holding it up, she said “that’s corey.  i hate him.” we smiled, jaded curved mouths.  it’s cute; if you understand.  i feel lucky tonight because i don’t feel like i’m being watched.  i felt alone and totally unprivate earlier today here in my apartment. it was stupid.  hopefully it will keep fading away and i won’t be watched.  “just let it go,” Jackie reminded me.  atta girl.  i’m tapping my fingers even when i’m not typing but as long as the fingers are going to tap, why not lay out words along with the tiny rhythms, tiny percussions.  let’s get into that later.  right now we’re going to get into a chocolate cake, a sugar rush, a rush to the supermarket, it’s the last day that boneless skinless chicken breast is on sale for an eye popping dollar eighty eight per pound.  that’s a damn good price.  damn good.  haven’t gone running in two days.  set a trap for myself.  might miss tomorrow morning because i have places to be early and it is 3.17 in the ante meridian.  i’ll live.  but i never doubted that.  getting fat is my concern, staying unfat.  lilly pads and oujia boards.  ripples in the pond.  ribbitts in the pond. palm fronds in the pond.  the palm of my pond.  the theater of the mind.  a life of the mind.  oh, Thoreau, please please please leave me be.  well, not entirely.  stiff back, questionable posture.  postulations.  lysp sink waif dust mooring. don’t stop can’t stop.

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About Suhail Rafidi

Suhail Rafidi is a novelist and educator whose works explore the destiny of human values in a technological landscape. You can find him on Twitter, too, @shelldive.
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