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2002-12-12 || 1:14 p.m. || red light turns to blush || the feeling that it is an absolute crime those scenes never made it on celluloid. going out to dinner with your boyfriend's best friend: all nervous and first date-like and you know what he once said about you and he knows all your moves and you're blushing and stammering and saying 'yes please' to more wine. walking up stairs to a party, conscious of how the footsteps have fallen in place together, conscious of the broken lightning bolts disappearing in carpet. walking from room to room in coats and down the hall with second-hand shoes clip-clopping side by side like a woodfloor wedding ceremony. drinking from the same plastic cup. turntable chenille bedspread polaroids party guests and paper crowns and there is that one part where everything is especially in focus, where you hope for good lighting and proper f-stop and no film mishaps because there will only be one take: somehow drunkenly lying on the same bed with shoes on and coats on and red light bulbs in the overhead chandelier, wanting so much for a kiss, imagining it over and over, but feeling content in the way your head is resting somewhat haphazardly in his armpit. guestbook || notes || archives || profile || photos || d-land |