Feeding The Habit

"I will go in this Way, Oh but I will find my own way out." -Dave Matthews

Saturday, January 29, 2005

Non-Automated Biography

A Saturday Night

The air was still. Light from the street gleamed across the porch making a triangle of bright across its surface. Mark sits writing, bent over his lap, sketching furiously. His tan work boots stick out from the bottoms of his blue Dickies. I smile at his narrow face and whisp of a moustache and beard poking through the sun-burnt skin. His hair is matted and pressed down against his forehead from the ball cap he wore all day.

Britt comes out the front door and sets off the motion light. She throws herself down and throws one leg over the other. A flip flop, black one, hangs carelessly from her toes. She lights a menthol and her cheeks sink in as she sucks at it. Mark bends down further with his brow creased. Deep furrows, head turning sideways to study his creation. Britt's wearing a skirt and a black top that makes a tease of the shoulders.

Nine years ago she was ten. A cute little thing. Now, it's deffinately something more than cute. Normally, too, it's just jeans, jeans with holes in the knees. I lean back and take a drag from the offered smoke. Its cool mint singes my tongue. I wonder why she's not wearing jeans.