Sunday Morning Chill

One Sunday morning two friends take to one darkened house as a means of distraction from their digit-worker lives. Their normal world left behind and almost forgotten, they ease into bottles, talk, and laughter around the brawny, robust light of too many candles.

A warm voice, coming from the low kitchen archway, begins the scene; it continues across the living room’s burnt-umber shag carpet, carried along on a superbly structured body that glides atop the long legs of Maggie. She carries a bucket of chicken and talks insistently. A question forms itself from her chaotic words, galloping over outstretched arms and steaming fried bird flesh.

“What’s the last thing you’d want to lose?” Flopping herself down on the carpet next to a lean, dark figure she continues. “Go on, Thomas, tell the eager audience at home how you’d answer that one.”

“Well, Maggie, that’s easy. It’s my internal monologue. Yes, it’s that,” he says. “I would dearly hate to lose my internal monologue.”

The flies are on the walls; all flies are within my skull. I rip the membrane and place the carrots inside with salt. This tender nutrition is fresh familiar fare, a child’s repast. We ate it in the caves; it was raw before the spark came. Now, dinning places are dedicated to its love; making fine the tables and their arrangement, lighting many candles and cueing many romantic songs, all in the name of filling our bellies.

“And you, Maggie?” asks Thomas. “Turn the question on yourself for fun, good times and dance party pleasure; what wouldn’t you like to lose?”

“Thomas, of the thane, my memory is my prize supreme. I couldn’t do without my memory. For sure.”

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