We're Not at Home to the Broke of Heart

I'm with the Light Brigade, she quipped, yesterday, Monday, with nary on the contrary, as if to say she was light on lumps. Tuesday followed, like all good Tuesdays do, and so did her grave train of thought: I'm on a top of the world, she stilted, beckoning belief, nose in chief. I am, persisted she, I am indeed—and it's nought not oft I say Indeed, 'tis it? Nought not no, I replied, calmly and rudely stealing an obvious glance at the time on my wrist.

The following Wednesday, we went for Melb's poisons of choice, at the old, bleak brew, we two. She ordered each tip-full, brought it to logic's conclusion and gravity's disarmament. And: I love you, I said, meaning each word but the last. Do you?, she tippled, cocking her chin for a laugh. I do, I continued, do you me? Do I who? Do I who? Forget it. I will. Applause. You, she began, seem different today. I snapped: I am different today. Why? I've on a different hat, to fool. To fool? You fool. That as may be, but ask a question— Quiet.

When Wednesday ceased, it seemed Thurs— Good morning, ever chipper I announced, for that was what it was—both senses. Is it? She turned her gaze to her Polish nails. Doesn't seem as though 'tis. Well, your seems apart, that is what it is, my loaf. I forced a stern look upon her. Did you get the newspaper? No. How could I have? Why don't you, then? I intend to. A snort this time. Any time soon? No, any time after I'm distinctly less pink, and washed. I have to do it myself do I? No. Yes I do. Yes you do, then.

What the fuck is I'm With The Light Brigade supposed to mean? Friday's response was merely an insular nod. Nothing? Yes, dear, nothing. What does it mean? Nothing. I fisted the wall. She peered, uncaring, behind her reading rims. Why that for? You won't tell me what you mean. Pah! You're the one who has to fix it. I know. I fingered the hole; this was going to take some fixing.

Bad Bones and the Sag

That old phone don't ring no more and that sweet old sun refuse to shine (at least not on my watch—although the glass ain't top-notch), and that empty bed (how sad a sight!) is as empty as it always was, and much emptier than it once wasn't, almost as if, by force of miracle, a cast has spelled my doom, no matter how persuasive my offer (or how slick my hair-gel)—: full of every waxed positive, abounding with compliments—of the stonewash nature—, and even, on occasion, with a fistful of fresh, fat cash (though not in the way you think—if you indeed do—nor in any logic-based way),---No, like, as it is, I've told, when the skin settles off your bones, so too does any chance of peeling off knee-highs, and so too does, by rights, health and entire happiness: whole happiness—as in, round the Horne—is full of itself back in those less-hunched, less-lessoned days of yore (and mine). But what's the use of spilling milk over it? How could that improve it?

It can't, quoth a new paragraph, nor can it hope to improve anyone within ear's range,---Virtually it is but a truffle:—hard to swallow, harder to afford, but overall distasteful (couldn't we learn a lesson from that?—: and, in hope, we can't be lessoned by it). But what of it? Let's get the swimmers off and leap into the ice, like René and his alumni have always told and taught us, leaning, as they were, on life-to-the-fullest.

Pub Life

I'm sure there are many out there who, after being jerked around by the mailman, turn to that most eloquent of drink, drink, and bottom-up. Then, after dunking their fill, they crawl on home to mamo and father, and fridge.

"It's like the most great tamo-reeeeen," they scream. "Or the loveliest of tumbones."
At this point, they seem inwardly motivated, and their hair-pins fail to hold their thoughts in firm, proper place. But they do seem to be having a particularly good time, somehow. There's dim lights, wet spots and ugly sponges, but all in all it's an everyone's-invited.

And so the morale of this tale? Well, the troops therein are actually in good spirits today, thanks mainly to the good spirits they drank last night.

That Time of the Season!

"Again!" I screamed, rising from my highly portable chair.
"Again?"
"Again!"

And so it was. After a few more agains, I allowed them a rest and a drink.
"What was wrong with the last one?" asked the troublesome among them.
"What was wrong with it?" I chuckled. "My dear fellow! What wasn't wrong with it?"

A time later, Ben opened his eyes and rose from the grass, mischief in his brow. He smoothed off his dinner suit and waxed the thinnest of thin smiles at no one in particular, then plucked the thermos from the makeshift and pummeled a delightful cup of hot chocolate. A thick brown mustache soon showed his appreciation.

"If I weren't such a bigot, I'd come over there and finger-wipe that artificial facial hair clean off. And I'd do it pretty damn lovingly too," said Harry, nodding convincingly.
"And if I weren't such a reasonable person, I might just let you," said Ben cooly.

Tom was in the ice box, rummaging for soda, as per. He had just finished wedding an arrangement of his kinfolk's concoction and he wasn't going to swallow it without the aid of non-alcoholic bubbles. Thankfully, the task turned out a complete success, and Tom and his soda soon shared a kiss.

"Again!" I called, prompting them back into Action mode.
"Shall we do it any differently?"
"Certainly not."

And that's how it went. That was my day. How about you? Did you have a good day too? I hope you did.