Molly

Molly pissed off months ago and though she has barely gotten a few steps away, she writes frequently as though she were in china already; it simply isn't. She said she might like a boy with smaller dreams and a love for fine arts and martinis - I replied I would like a girl who could put up a fight and who gagged the first time I made her drink whiskey shots, whom I could re-educate on the shitty poets of our modern times as though she might have appreciated them in passing so far. It made for a good war dance, and the makeup was very convincing.

I wrote, several times, like hot sand through my fist.

A friend convinces me I have a mythical condition called a block - like the inverse disruption of the bowel - that keeps my words from coming up from the fetid pits of my organs to my mouth. I told him only people with a deadline have the luxury of these fancy diseases. My vocabulary was sharp and on track, he offered.

Molly went at a time when life was tame, and more placid than anytime before - and it was like a long day before the storm when you watch for lightning long enough you damn well do it yourself. You jump up with a pistol and knock holes in the barn wall as an act of effigy, you burn bridges out of sheer complacence when the conversation is nothing more than a vanilla past and a future of endlessness.

Molly went with less than a whirlwind, but a planned withdrawal like a will decree and a mortgage sign off. It hurt like leaving a hotel. She thinks I hate her small town ways. I think she deserves a less straightforward maniac.