MARKING TIME
c. f. roberts
Morning. In a relative sense. The day spinning down big drain--
Into one more pot of coffee.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Banging the keys. Head in spin cycle. The words don't come. As per usual.
One more cup.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
More life gone, and you're caffeinated. Everything goes nowhere. You give up on the words, which have failed you today. One more cup of coffee. Two more. Another pot.
You think of her some more, the day driving down the highway, her saying, I really don't know what I want.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Hopped up. The violence in your head. Flashbacks. Big denial. Big avoidance. Little aversion. Switch over to cheap rotgut.
She wasn't happy to see you in that parking lot.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
She talks about him a lot. Gushes. The wine's almost gone. You only feel the least bit liberated. If you were the last man on earth--what? It's difficult to think straight, even now.
You drain the last of the wine.
The blue of the sky is deepening.
She says you should see his thesis-papers. He's brilliant. He's funny. His wit just shines through.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
You rip into the beer and ale. A few will kick in that oblivion you love and crave so.
A great conversationalist. That's what she said. He was a great conversationalist.
One beer already and you're numbing.
You think about the Odometer in her Probe, how she's racked up a couple thou on it in the last week, blowing up and down tri-state.
He's worth it, she says.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
She described the party at his place. Old buddies from his Alma Mater. Big-time intellectuals. Intellectuals. She used that word with a straight face.
One more pint.
Yeah--it was a big, intellectual beer bash, whatever that entails. Christ. What is an intellectual beer bash like? High-flown overlords brooding over the Universe's fate while they belch?
What are intellectual beer farts like, you wonder. Surely more captivating than not.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
What kind of hard-partying motherfuckers were Darwin and Nietzche?
Shit, what were you thinking?
Nothing important. It never is.
Comes the night.
Rattle into unconsciousness. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
