I'm staring at a blank screen, and the images that are running in my head, are reluctant to construct into coherent prose. And I guess this is writers block. And the cursor is still flashing, beckoning for movement, for characters to be produced.
And I find myself in the back of a new silver Fiesta, and the lights in front are glaring in the evening hue. The Hendrick's I've consumed causing a momentary loss of focus. And it reminds me of that night it felt like the south of France. The car pulling up curbside, unloading luggage, whilst the unusually thick, unusually warm May air hugged our bodies.
Only, the driver is smoking a Mayfair Smooth and the car moves freely though the empty Sunday streets. Cruising to a couple of apartments. Where some people enter and others exit the vehicle. And the smooth, freeness of the drive reminds me of similar journeys, comforting and grounding. And for the first time in several months, I feel at ease. At home.
And as the evening fades to night, and the Fiesta's red lights merge into the grain of the city, I'm dropped at the Church cornering my apartment. I have an inclination to go inside. But don't. And instead walk to my front door. Inside my shirt is pressed and folded, and tomorrows outfit, for a Stoli laced dinner has been composed, and is waiting in my dressing room.
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