6 PM

6 PM.
Lee.

The grind is over with the evening that I felt would never come, quietly here, sat at my table.
Upon the table lays a days old letter, still sealed, but it can wait. Bad news can wait.
It’s fierce hot outside and the middle of mind is melting. The thermometer on the newly painted wall has raced up and up, red-lining at a temp that denotes: ‘no panties weather.’
Ice in my glass cracks and creaks like the joints of an arthritic tango troupe as I finger tap the table top, already cancelling plans I made a week ago by ignoring messages from those I made plans with. Instead, tonight is for me. I’ll watch an old black’n’white film, foreign, replete with subtitles, the volume a whisper and the lights turned low. I’ll fall in love with obsidian eyes, stencilled eyebrows, mascara laden lashes and that foreign tongue which speaks of love; syrupy and silken, innocent and heartfelt love. I live in a dream world and as such should happen that I dreamt of you whilst working; obsidian eyes and mascara laden eyes and I filled in the blanks that my mind’s eye couldn’t see and this evening, I’ll do the same, watching a nostalgia imagined, but nonetheless real. The rest of the night…I’ll waste.