Waving Not Drowning

He's smoking again. It slid back into his life so incrementally, so casually he can't pinpoint the exact moment the scales tipped back to the life he left behind. He's off the gluten, off the meat, even managing to get in some running. Well, jogging really. Still, full speed ahead. But the smoking, that's the killer. Literally. It winds it's way into every aspect of his being, who he is, how he feels about himself. He was, is, will always be a smoker. A dry drunk, well, this is the battle with nicotine. The trail of smoke curling out of his nostrils, floating up across his brow, slightly furrowing as his glasses fog over. Ember glowing, crawling up the shaft towards the crook of his index fingers lightly bent, wrist cocked just so. Iconic images of silver screen matinee idols, cowboys, and rebels without causes. Men. Strong, virile, masculine men with Marlboros and Camels and Galouise. Players, DuMaurier, Native Spirit. Rolling papers and west coast bud rolled in wi...

Ohhhhh the way you melt in the mouth, the sweet chocolately goodness wrapped up in a soft textured oatmealy crust. Big juicy raisins exploding with sweetness, surrounded by the essence of cinnamon and clove, flakes of lightly toasted coconut, just dense enough to satiate but not so decadent as to push things over the edge, to that place where bliss slides into shame and regret. Still warm, flooding the synapses with feel-good endorphins, creating a moment of climax above and beyond what a cookie should be capable of providing. This is bliss. This is complete ecstasy, wild abandon, the total unleashing of one's true, feral self. Untamed, savage, beastly. Beware the path to carnal abandon, clear the way between Sylvia and her fresh baked, still cooling cookies. Three strides from oven to table is all she needs to capture her prey, the prize she so lovingly created, moulded, caressed, built with her own two hands. And the help of an obscenely expensive high gloss red Kitchen Aid stand...

I need you to listen. Lean in, that's right. Real close. I want you to feel my breath on your cheek, the heat from my exhale flooding your face with microscopic drops of moisture. That close, alright?Uncomfortably so. Because I do not want to raise my voice, you see? I want to speak slowly and quietly in order to impress upon you the importance of what it is I have to say. The profound nature of what it is I have to share with you, my friend. That is what we are, are we not? Friends. Close, intimate friends. I trust you with my life, this you understand in your soul, I know this. So right now, right this very second, I need you to hear me. To aurally comprehend the communication I am having with you. Put that cigarette down. It's a filthy habit and makes you weak. That's right, weak. You heard me. I love you, my friend but you are slowly, deliberately and recklessly poisoning yourself and all those around you. I will no longer tolerate it. Not around me, nor in my house, on...

Just when she thought it was over, the phone rang. Again. Laura has no idea how she survived before caller ID. At least they didn't have her address. Yet. It was only a matter of time, she knew that, but for now at least Laura didn't have to live in a shrouded studio apartment with her blinds drawn, music low, whispering to the cat. Stirring instead of using her Magic Bullitt dream machine blender. Keeping things quiet. On the down low. Maybe cable wasn't a good idea after all. Late nights spent in the hum of the blue light, listening to pitchman after pitchman excitedly expound upon the wonders of all sorts of things Laura didn't even know existed let alone were necessities evidently lacking in her life. She needed these things, all of them. Expanders, shrinkers, gyrators, prettifiers, organizers, educators, thingamajigifiers. Peelers, ricers, shakers, boilers, steamers, grinders. And on layaway, pre approved credit, easy to make payments spread over the rest of her li...

Oh darlin, don't mind if I do. Sidle on up to me and whisper sweet nothings in my ear. We can trip the light fantastic, rough and tumble in the ruins of our shared miseries and erect a monument to our mutual suffering. I like the way you talk, full of dreams and wonder, hope and contradictions. Turns me on, makes me believe I'm not so crazy, not entombed in a life of failures and whatifs. We woulda been great together before the wars, the bad decisions, the how about another, c'mon just one more days. I like the way you move, your swish and giggle, all gossamer winged grace. Untethered. Lemme fly up to meet you, unmoor myself from this hell we're anchored in. One more dance, darlin, just one more dance. One last long turn on the floor. The endless farewell, a lingering kiss, brutal embrace, desperate distraction before the sun comes up and carves us into grotesque shadows of our once glorious younger selves. Don't look at me, just bury your head in my chest and wrap...