Catalina

Catalina.

Tonight, I got so drunk that I cannot remember where the dirt under my fingernails came from. I sat at the edge of my lawn. Could have been the edge of the universe. And I ran the hose over my hands. The water was cool and clean. The dirt ran free from my fingers.

The music that played was, as usual, sad and disjointed. Some of it was in French. From what I could glean, it was about more dirty fingernails. Though it wasn’t a garden hose that cleaned the fingers, but the tears of the cheated. Hearts teased. And broken with half promised paradises.

The birds that sing in my garden, sing not because of proverb. Not because they have any answers. Not because of Maya Angelou. Not just because they have a song to sing. It’s because their tiny hearts will never fly high enough to escape their perches.

My neighbor’s Mercury needs service. Needs fluids. Her power steering screeches and stutters as she scrapes out of the driveway of the apartment from which she pays too much rent.

She has no boyfriend that is not battery operated. I hear her lonely moans on those lonely Friday nights. I watch her pull away down the street. On her way to work. I’m guessing as a waitress. It’s all too easy. And only gets harder from there.

Time for another drink. Maybe a walk to the store as there is only one more soldier left in the fridge. Plenty more tequila though. Plenty more sad songs. Plenty more days. Even if not for me, then for the rest of the lonely neighbors of the world.

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About magnumturtle

I write fiction.
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