Into the cold morning, a long drive home with the clouds balancing the horizon and falling down the hillsides in grace. And I think of the places I should be, overseas or in a new country or in a city that loves me and loves my writing and invites me out for drinks or to a campfire scene where literary types sip coffee and smoke cigarettes under the canvasing moon, talking of whimsical love, breathing youth like it’s oxygen for everyone to share, to taste, to savor.
I see myself there, contributing to the banter. Maybe a girl with dark brown hair hangs on my lap, or maybe she is the first blonde I have ever dated, or maybe she has those reading glasses that frame pretty faces and make them great.
I am reading my novel to her. The campfire flames strike when the plot gets sultry, simmer when I talk of love and anxiety and forgetting the reasons love made me smile. Somehow my words sound nice. Unforced. And I speak them to her in whispers, her lips a few inches away, waiting for me to stop so she can kiss me well, this imaginary girl in this imaginary memory on this very real drive home the morning after Christmas.