Our Hours

2016-03-29-21-12-45

At the karaoke bar near the lakeside resort, she sits facing him, her legs apart, draped over his, comfortable in the closeness, her toes dangle, kick out, keeping time with the music.

The bartender delivers on the Irish Car Bomb and laughs when they make a mess and they give it right back, teasing her, tell her they will lick it up rather than let it go to waste with the wipe of the bar rag.

They sit. They dance. They play.

They joke about anything. They talk to anyone. And they talk with each other.

Strangers come in to their space. Men touch her hair, high-five her to feel her skin, lean in. Women remark on their energy, take notes, ask for history and stats and try to soak in their heat.

They don’t see the magic around them. They don’t see much at all. They feel. They feel it. They blatantly deny they are husband and wife, insisting on lovers, a far better claim than the title the rule-makers tend to admire.

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The hours pass. They look up, disturbed, rather bewildered, upon hearing last call. 

#for Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of the web.

 

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Daily Prompt: Surface

via Daily Prompt: Surface

 

annboatfeetThe boat is a late 80’s model Chris Craft beauty. She’s got a 350, 8 cylinder GM OMC under the cover and they don’t make them like this anymore. Tan with red and black seats, we get grandfathered in to carry twelve across the water.

And we carry.

Took it up to 50 last Saturday morning,  cut through the glass of the water, broke the surface with the bow raised,  just to fly, to leave the world behind for a little while, engine opened up with a throaty laugh at the shore, a cry into the dawn that asks for applause rather than pity.

The boat has all the friends on the lake. She is the head-turner. Parked on the lift or anchored into the sandbar the stares are not for my bikini-clad self. The appreciation for the simplicity of power, for the care and keeping of an aged machine, the subtle value of going old-school, whatever it is, the draw to the boat brings an energy exchange that sparks conversation and brings waves of recognition.

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We are known. We are seen. We are what others are not. And this is the way we like it. 

#for Reticent Mental Property. Daily Prompt participant. August 12, 2016

 

 

A Physical Presence

RMPbrovy

Criss-crossed, my legs are in your heat, tucked under the rail. The tan purse from my shoulder rests under my elbow – the one you knew to look for upon my arrival. Your face is not turned toward me and I like the casual stance you are trying to take. There’s a busy bartender pulling the tap and trying to make conversation but she’s not listening to our answers and we don’t hear her questions.

You set the popcorn between us, don’t mind if my hand dips in the bowl when yours does. I wait and take a few kernels, you do the same. There’s a bit of the white that falls to the bar and you swipe it to the floor with the side of  your hand. Somehow a salty small piece takes to the corner of my mouth and you think nothing of reaching and holding my jaw -fingers open to the flesh under my chin – as you use your thumb to flick it off a ribbon of lips.

A bit distracted by your forwardness, I put on a smile and brush the same place with my fingertips. I grin with a bit of discomfort that I find I have but don’t hold long when I’m with you. We talk about golf- you don’t play anymore. We talk about your place and the storms of last night. We check up on the children we both raise, keep raising. We talk about nothing but manage to lean into each other, frequently, shoulder to shoulder a little shrug of acknowledgement of the ease of sharing our worlds.

It’s time to go.

I check my phone and reach out to shake hands, palm to palm, a solid touch, firm and strong no matter the heated tone of the conversations we end.

We used to kiss goodbye.

I look into your eyes and find your gaze, hold on to your attention longer than your hand.

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Cheers to happy hour and good listens. Cheers to verbal battles and the chemistry of banter.

#for Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of the web.

 

Puzzling

RMPpuzzle

Pieces of me have never quite fit.

Some sides are all curved and blend with the sky but somehow, never the ground.

I’m growing, I’m thriving. But there is a part of my being, that blocks out the sun.

Don’t worry about my bright and my merry; when dusk falls, I find my release, in the secrets I keep.

The paths that we choose-  hell, the paths that are chosen- we’re not wandering so much as we’re waiting for the rest of life to catch up with us.

We’re not hurting so much as we’re soothing our souls with the truth of connection and touch.

So I’m a breaker of hearts and a mender of minds while I’m bandaging, binding, bleeding red with the men who need just a whisper of appreciation; just a soft voice to stave off the lonely;  just a kiss of pure kindness; just the bliss and the twinkling of laughter; just the beautiful collapse of two bodies, spent.

I’m a solid believer in tradition laced with rogue. I’ve got a lifetime of living, precariously balanced, finding my toes clinging to fence posts, teetering between safety and savage and sin. I’ve made all my own choices, have committed in full.

I’m consistent. I’m wavering. I’m playing the fool.

But you’re not all that you believe you are when I’m with you.  And you’re far less than you think you can be.

So you are leaning into me- all suckling and slurping at the teat of my spirit- while I die, just a little bit, deep inside every day.

Give me a minute; I’ll trade you a decade.

Pay up tomorrow; we’re all borrowed and hocked to the hilt.

Leverage my loving.  It’s yours for the asking. I’ve taken the gold band of time.

Don’t look at me in the haze of the sunset- my shoulders all bronzed by the staggering sweep of your sun as you teach me your version of love.

Don’t see me as anything other than sweet simple defiance.

I’m solid.

I’m broken.

I’m through.

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There’s not a time she recalls knowing she wasn’t this way. Get to know me, she says. Accept me, she says. This way, she says.  Please me, she says:  just as I currently am.  

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#for Reticent Mental Property. Image courtesy of the web.

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Money Keeps Talking Louder

A very political post.

(surprised?)
Get the big picture. And I don’t mean from your entertainment news channels or your angry talk radio. Pick up some reading resources you may not have thought you could make time to view….
Wisconsin knows this story, some choose to ignore the details or approve, openly, of the Koch plan and supporting organizations like Cato, and the insertion of big money interests into elections. Our Supreme Court apparently agrees. Few of the incomes in WI or across the US match the level of $ to “play with” as the Koch family. And no matter how optimistic you are, YOUR income will never match it – will NEVER even come CLOSE. Yet across WI, and soon across the nation, voters will support the survival mentality– and that mentality is, “If I’m not going to have a lot, no one else should either.” This makes me rather bitter…an entire country aspiring to the lowest common denominator and cheering for it. Think bigger than yourself, please. Think bigger than Wisconsin, please. And get ready for negative advertising, mudslinging and the manipulation of all your greatest fears.- Ret

Just Above Sunset

On Valentine’s Day, 2011, no one was thinking that Scott Walker had much of a chance to be our next president. That’s when the protests started – Walker, just elected for his first term as governor of Wisconsin, had surprised everyone. He wasn’t the bland moderate conservative they thought he was, and the surprise was his new Budget Repair Bill. That bill required a big jump in contributions by state and local government workers to their healthcare plans and their pensions – they’d take an eight percent hit in their take home pay – and they’d lose their collective bargaining rights too, except when they sought pay increases, but if they wanted one penny above the rate of inflation that would have to be approved by a voter referendum. Working conditions, work hours, any benefits – that bill made it illegal for them to bring up any of that. Cops…

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Straddle

RMPobamareganNew day take me on.

Let me set the pace of this adventure to the cadence of his footsteps on hardwood,  his hand on the small of my back leading me to the bar next to the dark theatre.

Sun, stream in through the panes, warm my bones and bring on the golden shine in my hair.  My smile reaches out, as if it were my hand, and touches your eyes.  I weave my fingers into your hair, over and over.  I turn my knuckles to your cheek, and back to my palm, a connective  kneading into your being. I  am unable to stop the pad of my thumb from tracing the line of your jaw.  Mouth to the ceiling, my laughter escapes, bursts out with sweet joy for the minutes we have together,  and I am rewarded as  your grin erupts,  the one reserved for me.

This grin is not the the one you try to hide by looking away,  by putting that dark  glass of Porter to your lips when we are seated side by side,  your good ear to my left.  That grin is still there,  an hour later, as we find ourselves batting back and forth yet another,  differing opinion.   Conversation with you,  so easy,  so heady, especially as your raised eyebrow and my appalled gasp meet across the bar to challenge the topic.  I can feel  how well we fit and fuel each other.

Your arguments do not sway me.  Nor mine, you.  Traditional and practical,  I want to turn and straddle you on your bar stool and soak up your smirk and cut down your resistance to my words.   While you,  so turned on by my talk,  my mind,  find your desire directing your hands to my boots, up my thigh and around the curve of my bottom.

We both win.

He was her cabin lover, a man of integrity.  He would resist and reject her on principle and she expected no less of him.     

#for Reticent Mental Property, image from ourvisiblehand.blogspot.com

The Play of Minds Quote Day

RMPlaughingwomanboothSurely only boring people went in for conversations consisting of questions and answers. The art of true conversation consisted in the play of minds.

Ved Mehta– March 21, 1934: Born in Lahore when it was still under British rule, writer Ved Mehta made his way to the U.S. and became a New Yorker staffer.

She’s laughing with you, head thrown back, throat filled, her open lips, her soundless words, shouting from the white of your page, disturbing your empty and peaceful places, speaking with you, letting you find and feed her mind. 

#for Reticent Mental Property