Ian Pike noon, Dec. 8
This blog is inspired both by the recent urgings of others for some kind of neighborhood fiction and also the couple that was using the bench outside of my apartment the other night for their escapades
I know it has only been two days but in my mind, I haven't been able to touch you for two years. I can still feel your hands as they moved- well, I'm sure you remember.
That bench we were on, I sure hope no one saw us. Sure, it was right outside of the restaurant but it was a little dark there. But the way you seemed to swallow me whole, I got to a point where there was no world around us. Just infinite time. And the buses. Ok, and the planes. And there was that group of drunk frat boys. But whatever. The point is when I'm on your lap, we are connected and the volt I feel between us throbs with electricity. I feel so much a part of your right now. I just hope your name really is Enrique because it's so exotic.
I hope we can meet again. I'll be on the bench and this time, I'll just be in a pea coat. I hope that helps.
P.S. I hope next time that creepy guy smoking the cigarette isn't there. Doesn't he know we could have gotten cancer?!
Just so you know, on Saturday night there was a couple that might as well have been having sex on the bench outside of my apartment. I mean, the wandering hands and the moans and the giggling... I was waiting for the Trojan condom horse to come galloping up, "Trojan Maaaaaan!" Anyway. I didn't blog about it because, well, I just didn't. Maybe I was jealous.