by Lizzy Tish
CONTENTS Is There a Worse Pickup Line? …… 5 He’s Finally Here …… 6 Red Cherries …… 7 Snowball Fever …… 8 That Cake, So Happy to See Her …… 9 Play Me English Beat …… 10
About the Author …… 11
Is There a Worse Pickup Line?
The pub was dark, the band fantastic and out of nowhere appears this guy, dude – whatever – he was breaking into my groove. He danced oddly, swirling his ponytail between his fingers and tipping his hat to anyone who would look. To my horror, he made his way my way – I turned my head hoping the intense rhythms of the music would shake him from the vicinity. “I can’t hear you!” I didn’t care one bit – why would I waste a good song on conversation with him; “You want to come back to my hotel with me? I have a Jacuzzi” he insisted; I flipped my hair around to the beat instead.
He’s Finally Here
What I do remember is standing in the kitchen on a sunny morning, the cusp between Aquarius and Pisces, when dad explained I was a big sister. I also remember my long, plaid bathrobe I loved to wear, but then I was only three – so maybe I am wrong about the pattern being plaid. The kitchen floor was yellow and the cabinet’s dark wood – but the sun made everything look positively luminescent. I was going to buy his first rattle and was very excited to do so with dad’s money – I would of course look tirelessly for the best one. Mom was waiting to see me – to introduce me to him. Our names both start with the same letter – wonder if my parents planned that specifically.
It’s been a long time since she ran her finger around the edge, waiting for the wonderful, delicate noise it makes when it’s still kind of full. It’s sweating now since it’s become so hot; is it really that crowded in here tonight? She’s chosen the green one that is refreshing with bitter sweetness like a sourpatch kid; the cherries she asks for… two of them sink immediately to the bottom. She saves them for last. It only takes one sip to stave off the peculiarity of today, her head now absorbed in the harmony of flavors. Play the music louder because she wants to dance.
It had finished dumping buckets of the freezing white stuff when she followed her father and little brother into the backyard; a dreamy, soft winter. Her mother had packed her into a ghastly blue one-piece snowsuit, telling her not to come back into the house and make a mess. Theyâ€™d have chicken soup later when they come back in for good. In the yard havoc pierced silence; two snow forts rose at opposite ends and all she wanted was dad on her side. The only protection she had was the lid of a metal garbage can. Then, in a sweet moment of childhood justice, her little brother cried when she pounded him with a snowball of her own fantastic creation.
That Cake, So Happy to See Her
It – was – hilarious; completely worth the ridiculous cost when I heard the story afterwards. I asked a friend to pick up the birthday cake and mentioned it was a very “special” cake – a cake from a “gourmet bakery” in the Village. I also mentioned to double check the sentiment I asked the bakery to write on the cake; to be sure it’s correct. When the box was opened – it no longer mattered what the cake said, as it was topped off with a very generous part of the male anatomy. Confused by my friend’s reaction, the cashier asked her if it was the right one – to which my friend replied (knowing how I love to set her up in embarrassing situations), “No, it’s definitely the right cake.” That cake was positively delicious.
Play Me English Beat
The music is throbbing and hot to her touch; she finds the beat and soon her senses are begging for a break, yet she’ll never forget what the exact moment of her favorite song feels like. The lights blind her on Broadway as the bass pounds, discovering her with its rolling rhythms and deep plucky plucks. Play it harder and never stop until the strings snap off or she collapses to her knees. There’s no time for a missed note because she’s still dancing and losing her balance under his swaggering danger line. The theater moans wildly and heaves her left to right. At the moment of truth she leans in close – her voice escapes her; absorbing his presence heavily when he’s, right, there – and it¹s surprisingly perfect after 23 years of not knowing what this moment will feel like. sixsentences.blogspot.com
About the Author
6S Lizzy Tish is a Graphic Designer living not too far from NYC. She occupies her time with music and creative pursuits of many kinds. Hot Pink Toes: http://sixsentences.blogspot.com/2008/03/hot-pink-toes.html