Take my hand; let's explore the hidden crannies of the mind. Humanity crosses many worlds.
I remember her color: black speckled with serpent's green. Today, when I should be slumping at my desk writing copy for a natural cleaning product made in Salinas, I'm daydreaming about my mother's toes and how my father used to kiss them.
I have a date tonight. One of those muscly Crossfit guys. We met near my house on open mic night—he sidled next to me, complimented my blouse (we both knew he liked what was in my blouse, cradled in my faithful pushup bra), and displayed a fair tenor later in the night when he sang his version of The Color of Love. I'm not sure why I mumbled, "Yes", when he asked me out, maybe I was bored.
Hours later, spiderwebs crowning me, I find it: a crystal bottle with striations of color, tumbled to the bottom of a crate of her things.
Sometimes things don't work out.
The startup fails.
The solo career flops.
The coffeehouse closes.
My favorite part of those early days (before it went to shit) was steaming the milk and wedding it to the fragrant brown espresso. Flooding the cup with lick-your-lips marshmallow foam. Handing the cup over, a little reluctant to let go. Surface tension slick, rosetta bulging.
You fall in love and you leave your chest cavity wide open for these sorts of things.
Truth is, I don't care anymore. I managed to salvage my La Marzocco FB80 and a Mazzer Major grinder. My parent's basement has 220 power. Some days I don't leave the house, unless I run out of coffee.