Can’t, er, “Bury” Tales Like These

29 12 2009

I drove down to the inlet in the old convertible.  I had a good book and some good candy, and I dropped the top almost before the engine stopped rumbling.   It was the summertime, but the weather was gray and cool.  I kept my sweatshirt on, even though I didn’t plan on getting out of the car.  I had picked my backdrop for the book carefully, and for the next few hours I wore away the enamel of my teeth and memories with sugar and fiction.  This wasn’t escapism per se, but given another few weeks of August, who knew where I’d end up.

It was a good day.  I knew I’d head home soon and walk into the kitchen, immediately smelling the boiling water on the stove.  Right now, I could smell the marginal scent of bayside refuse and saltwater.  It made the taste of my sour candy that much more acute, but I still resented it.  I needed a clean breeze to go along with the Alaskan story I was reading, but Los Osos tends not to oblige that desire very often.

And so passed one of my most memorable days of the year.  Not because of what I did, but because of what it was.

It was my last day to myself.

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10 01 2010

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