RE: Symptoms of an Overactive Imagination
"By manipulating local results a marketeers work becomes wholly more effective!" Dr. Rangest is excited at the prospect of bringing his advertisements closer to you. The projector filling in the white board with white noise, as he navigates google ad sense the way one lines up scissors before clipping a coupon. An hour into class, not even halfway through.
"Content mu st be geared towar...... "
Dusk is magic, the fleeting light of a lukewarm afternoon leaves its mark in half seen shadows and glancing perspective. I am the fault in your best laid plans. I wait by the trendy shops, your husband may not have noticed those toeless sandals or the purse that perfectly matches it; I did. I notice the make and model of your car, the luxury settings you couldn't live without. I've been waiting to appreciate you for weeks, I know the way your keychain chimes when your Lord and Taylor membership card bangs against it's LA Fitness keyring.
I'm no ordinary thief you see, I've nabbed those keys before. I don't intend to hotwire a car on Greenwich Ave. I have bigger plans, hell, I've burned a CD for the occasion. Talk about a joyride.
Last week when that nice cashier ran out to bring you your missing keys back, I'd had enough time to have a my guy copy it and even get a cup of coffee. Vanilla bean.
"Get off the fucking phone" I whisper to you, always two cars behind. I'd like to think you subconsciously hear me as you get out and walk to the salon. I called ahead and have it way overbooked by now, a fifteen minute wait on a monthly chat with your friend Santiago, I hope you know that it's not the coloring you're paying for.
I get out of my car now too and slip my copy of our key in. Brown leather seats don't come standard in this model, they're nice. I relax for a bit, remembering how this time last month I got my ears lowered beside you. Santiago knew the names of your girlfriends from college, he agrees that they've never been able to find a way to grow from those days. I didn't like the way the hairdresser ran her fingers through my hair, the small stretch of contact more intimate than I'm comfortable with.
I drive two miles south, under the bridge that lets you know it's the bad part of town. I smell your perfume on the wheel, a smoother ride than I'm used to. I pull up to what used to be an old sausage factory, the garage door has the blue-gray spray painted words, "Welcome Home, Meat"
The door raises after a single beep, the man I affectionately know as, "Chop" asks me, "how in the hell did you manage to pull this one."
That's easy Chop, I just fell in love.
Shifting folders, zipping bags...shit, what was this a lesson on?
Some cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.
(This post was last modified: 04-03-2014 06:24 PM by Vatman.)