| western watershed romance |
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I remember her. Glacial eyes, snowy, smooth skin,
flowing snow-blonde hair, voluptuous, beautiful tits, cute little nose
and pale pink lips and - yeah, she was looking good. Good-natured,
warm, tolerant of me, so, fuck, I asked her out. She accepted a few
times. Once, I think, we did a typical dinner thing - bland. A second,
and this I remember better - I brought her and her sister up to
Arrowhead for a bash, a bash awash in booze, booze I used to lube both
she and I. Didn't work, such a cheap ploy to get some ass, some
connection - she got fucking trashed, like falling-down drunk, and when
I dropped her off in the early morning back at her house - our wires,
they weren't sparking. I don't recall her being especially smart or
insightful, but, then again, I don't think I ever gave her a chance to
reveal her intelligence or intuition, or, if she did, I didn’t listen.
By that point, I was just projecting onto her what I wanted from a
woman, thereby clouding her. In other words: that one, it was over before it could even begin.
And
while those glorious globes that majestically adorned her chest
frequently drew my furtive glances, when I think of her, the first
image that floods my mind is those icy eyes, those eyes shaded like an
abyssal, alpine cirque lake, fathomless, where only rock and ice and
sky occupy space. I should've taken the frightening plunge into the
snowmelt cerulean water and forced myself alive.