Against My Better Judgment

[handwritten notes penned on or around 4-19-2010, transcribed here with minimal edits for your reading curiosity]


Crazy writer guy with a notebook in a sports bar. Outside was a clear blue sky, spring verdant and building momentum. Inside there were too many screens and nowhere to look. A paradox of technological intrusion.

Technology insists. It shouts and demands our attention like a spoiled child. It cannot be mute (or not for long). It cannot be hidden in the gentle thrush and delicious tendrils of Nature. Technology must be seen, heard, felt, in all its silicon insistence. That’s the nature of Technology.


Long tendrils of dark brown hair wash over his chest as she moved above him, plunging and gasping and shattering into a million sparkling shards, then collapsing on his chest, knitting herself back together, taking her time before releasing him, her eyes surrendered yet hidden from him through the veil of her hair. The two of them, together. And alone in this trembling moment.


A tiny tattoo, a crescent moon with a star impossibly between its points, just above the waist of her low-slung jeans, in the hollow of her hip, right where he ached to bite, to pinch, to startle. Then suckle and sooth until she pushed his head lower.


“A zoo bear,” she said, a sly grin creeping across her face. “Not a real one, so I wasn’t frightened. Though I was somewhat confused about its appearance in my kitchen.”

He never knew how to read her when she was like this.


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