yes. pancakes. I tell her pancakes for sure. breakfast is her thing. I stay in bed. warm and listening to soft alt country music. sun coming through the window. summer days. slow. summery smells and humidity. the a/c clicks on and the air is cool the hum. the hum of switches and fuses.
I hear clicks and clanks in the kitchen. I imagine she wears an apron. tussled hair. dripping pancake batter. it sizzles and pops. blue-berry. maple syrup. i can almost taste them.
she comes into the room with lemonade. fresh squeezed. she says. but i know it's crystal lite. I ask if she used three lemons or four. I ask what she wants to do today and she climbs on top of me.
the beach, or thrift stores, food shopping, doing the lawn, watching t.v., book stores, comic shops, surfing, driving, going in the pool, bbq, holding hands, making-out, Frisbee, drumming, kung-fu, parks, .......... summer is hot and slow and I don't want to do anything, say anything, write anything. I like music, books and breezes. I like the ocean. not sharks. I like the way jellyfish look drifting toward the sunlight. almost invisible. sometimes i wish I were.
invisible.
I am sleepy. reality bores me. I like her voice, and her hands and her fixin breakfast.
photo5: its-kitsch
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