she could see him outside her window. the flick of his lighter was the key. otherwise he might have gone unnoticed. but she knew, and she knew it was him. he'd called twice that day and she'd all but pulled the phone from the wall.

this was not an over-reaction. just a passionate one. he had told her that he was seeing someone new. that they were over. she'd hung up at that point. who really needs to hear more? but he needed to say more, to meld it into her heart and mind that she was not the object of his desire.

well enough. he'd driven up a moment ago. she could always tell the way he squealed around the corner at the top of the block. no reason to, he just would. maybe it's likend to the guys with the crusher handshakes--a show-offy over-compensation thing. that would make sense with him.

she heard the squeal as she'd exited the tub. still pink and dripping footsteps across the livingroom. her bedroom blinds were half open. she'd pulled them back earlier to watch an incoming storm. the electricity still glinted in the air. candles lit her room. that the only light inside.

and the flick of his lighter outside. he hadn't reached the door. he'd caught sight of her through the shades first and lingered. maybe he was stalling. or maybe he was watching. regardless, she languished in an aphrodite mentality. she was the embodiment of love and passion and fertility. maybe it was knowing that he was out there, or maybe it was the goddess herself filling her with this strength and beauty.

she sat cross-legged on the bed, bolster by pillows or scarlet and wine. she picked a book from the nightstand. kafka. and she read. book open on her intertwined calves, wet hair falling in gentle waves over her breast. she smiled. turned on her side, her back to the window and read her book. an hour passed before she heard the squeal around the corner again. it was quieter this time. a disappointed disillusioned squeal. more a timid squeak.

she read another hour and fell asleep contentedly, still feeling beautiful, strong, and loving.

he wouldn't call again. afterall, what would a man dare say to a goddess?

this is not a true story. there is no fact in the characters played this evening.

i want to tell a story though. the problem is that i can't remember how it starts. nor can i recall how it goes. i'm just sure there's a story.

there was the moon. i know that. i can see it most distinctly. a phantasmal orb hanging on black satin. no strings to hold it or keep it still. just the trust of air and space and little children looking up with eyes just as white and wide. that moonlight, that winter light. the only source of light that is so piercingly cold it lends to couples clinging closely to another and inciting warmth. a cold that leads to warmth. the contrast of pure glacial white against pitch. all the opposites existing at once.

so there was the moon. and the water. listening now i can hear it. the ocean roll and roar that creeps and crashes burrowing her watery hands deep into sandy shore. we dive into liquid and she into solid. she tends her rock garden, pulling the most shimmering specks and finest flecks to the top then ebbs back to examine her work, taking what she dislikes with her into miles of azure corduroy, gentle fluid hills and valleys reflecting the cool midnight moonlight.

there was a hand in mine. soft skin, strong intention. like he was afraid that if he held it any tighter the truth of his thoughts would be known through the coursing of his blood so briskly beating just beneath. that or it was the tenderness of careful love masking the pounding possessiveness of passion. but it wasn't just a hand it mine, like the hands you holding during hymns. the hands that lay flat in yours. no, there was intention in the shape of his hand. it formed to mine, cupping, enclosing, imprinting on mine, hoping to leave its design, mark or warmth or scent there long after the clasp opens.

i wish i knew the rest.

two hours in Yachats

that was enough. it could start off like a joke "a girl walks into a bar" only it wouldsn't be a joke and it's only mildly funny.

the newspaper advertizes "sesmic gyspy hipno jazz". who could turn that down? (or say it three times fast for that matter?) i've missed chicago jazz, the gypsy jazz thing is close to my heart. so what the bar is 40 minutes away in a place i've never been and i'm going alone.

drive. park. get out. go in. orient.

the band is already playing and i'm glad i'm there. looking around, the clientel isn't what i had expected. 40's 50's 60's. the band is young, my age, from portland. but the crowd... and then i think, is this what it means to get older? that the crowds i'm surrounded by are automatically getting older too?

find a table. sit down. light up. relax.

ten minutes in and there's no drink in my hand, and no server has asked if i want one. must not be a 'service' place. fine. up to the bar. order gin and tonic. somewhere next teo me, somthing speaks. a man seems to have materialized out of the wallpaper, kind if a fade in effect. "you have pretty hair" the image says. i looked around. seriously. not the bitchy 'are you talking to me?' look around but the 'does anyone else see this guy?" look around. there are other eyes on me and i decide wallpaper guy is least threatening. "thank you. that's very nice of you to say". grab your drink and walk away.

concersation avoided. or so i had thought. fucking santa claus is in front of me now. seriously, no drugs involved here kids but it's starting to feel a little hunter s. thompson. "pick a number between 1 and 12" santa says. i'm wondering if the wrong number will delay the arrival of that easy bake oven i'm wanting. "11" i say. birthday number. had to be done. "did i win?", "close" he says. now i'm expecting coal.

where the hell is my table?

sitting. drinking. listening. happiness.

another cigarette into the set i hear commotion at the table next to me. lot's of "what's that smell?" and "that's awful, it smell's like..." used to this, i ignore it. not because i'm used to being malodorous, but becuase i know it's the honeyrose's i'm smoking. fuck em, i think. it's a bar. they'll get over it.

finally a couple under 40 walks in and sits at the table adjacent to mine. at a break between songs i ask if the girl would watch my drink while i run to the restroom. "sure" and a smile. the first noncreepy thing all night. in the bathroom stall there is a chalkboard. written in scrolly orange chalk is "happy halloween. there are swinger here tonight looking for a partner." fuckin' santa! it's all clear now. having forgotten the swing code and secret handshake for a moment, i now realize he was looking for the number "3". just don't touch anything in there.

band takes a brief intermission. almost the moment that thier instruments are easied from thier hands, some woman has run up and turned on the jukebox, directly next to the stage. it lights up, pages flip and something country starts to yarl from the speakers. if you know jukebox country, you know that yarl. i chit chat with the youngsters. from portland. here for a beach weekend. seen the band before. love em.

light up again. within seconds the comments start again from the table behind. "smell" and "awful" and "crab shit" are lobbed. now, i'm a firm believer that if you don't want someone to hear something, you probably shouldn't say it out loud. and the drink is setting in and warming me and loosening my own tongue. picking up an empty pack of my cigarettes, i walk to the other table and place them down. eyes on me. "they're mine". silence. "they're herbal". they're all turning looking at eachother. "i know they don't smell your winston's but they're just rose, clover and marshmallow". the woman standing lets out an "oh" and her chest sinks in about three inches. "we just didn't know what it was" someone says. "i know" i say.

sit. drink. swell with pride a little. smoke. smoke. smoke.

the band is starting and no one has bothered to turn the box off. it's playing a door's tune and the fiddler is plucking along, kinda making a joke out of it. i find i'm walking to the bar to ask for them to shut it off at the same time as the band's friend is. he asks. he tinkers around behind the machine. nothing happens. a guy that looks like a hell's angel in fisherman plaid walks over and helps.

music. pencil in hand, muse has struck and i'm writing poetry in time with the music. for the music. not "for the music" as a song, but in tribute. sketching and writing and drinking and smoking. all a blur. the band is thirsty. talking another break.

the hair officianado has gotten closer and drunker and louder. it seems time to make leave. pay the bill. look for the band's tip jar. it's a water pitcher. "i'm not going to contaminate your water, am I?" flashing a five to the drummer and motioning to the jar, just to make sure that this was the proper place for my gratuity. "i don't think you could contaminate anything" he says, "well maybe minds. i bet you could contaminate minds". i'm confused, smiling, nodding and walking out. what did that mean? was it a compliment or a dig? can't tell. would a compliment have the word contaminate in it?

home. safe. 2 hours in Yachats was enough for one night.