I am thick and happy on wine and the evening. Mami will make me get up early tomorrow, but I can't be bothered to mind.

Mm, my hate seems to be all leached out, bleached out and stamped dry by bare-feet on the aqua carpet. The stars that I see in the sky are some other color than black. Bouganvilla color, most likely, like the fat puckered porch blossoms swinging thick in the thick, sea-heat.

Daddy and I sat on the brown leather couch in the earlier evening, talking about poetry and criticism and sludge, and the beauty of Sylvia Plath and the difference between Craft and Harry Potter.

Mami and I dance to Pata Pata in the family room, shaking it like they do down Johannesburg way. Mami squeals fangirlishly over Bette Midler singing twisted, twisted like our hips in the darkish window glass. Shaniqua drinks wine and I giggle.

I'm glad I don't live here. It gives me the opportunity to miss this.

<<agé chose>>

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