Saturday Afternoon

There had been too many projects on my plate on that Saturday afternoon in early April 2009. More to write every day, as my Muse pushed herself on me without any mercy. My output was staggering even by my own estimation, and stories and poems and everything except the real journalism started to melt together, to meld itself into one giant narrative, larger than would fit neatly into my brain.

So it should have been no surprise to me that I couldn't remember which part of my latest story was inspired by her, or which part was inspired by one of my writer pals that I chat with almost every day. But it certainly surprised her, and then immediately pissed her off royally.

"I loved the new story, baby," she said, smiling. "That was partly inspired by Donna, and partly inspired by me, right?"

"Um, yeah, I forget which parts right now. I think she inspired the first part and you inspired the second part," I said distractedly.

"What?" she said. "What, you don't remember which part of the freakin' story I inspired, and which part that blondie inspired? You are kidding me, right?" She was starting to glower, with that fire in her eyes.

"Hey, she has a name, okay? And I have been writing so much lately that I just didn't recall exactly which part of that story came from her and which part came from you. Okay, yeah, the first part was her, and the second part was you."

"Damn right it was," she spat. "You confuse me with her, maybe you should go over there and spend some more time. 'Cause there ain't nothing here for you, buddy." She pivoted on one foot, her silken brown hair whooshed around, and she stomped out of the room, stilettos clicking against the marble floor. "Humpf," she muttered, "dude can't distinguish me from the blonde."

As she went, I got a good view of that bootay, as it shook and shimmied down the hall. I thought to myself, "dang, baby, would you like some fries with that shake?"

She looked over her shoulder at me, smiled, and then flipped me the bird, and continued down the hallway.

"Ooooo," I said, "sign language. I love it. And an invitation too."

As her hand reached the doorknob, she paused, and let out a small laugh, and turned and looked at me, standing there looking at her, with my hands in my pockets, waiting.

"Eh," she said, and crooked her index finger slowly, "come here, dude."

Oh, yes, I thought to myself, she is forgiving me my momentary lapse, and she wants to nuzzle me, and make out for an hour or so. As I moved down the hall toward her, I could feel her breathe, and as I reached her, I could feel her heart start to pound with anticipation, and a little glimmer of sweat, a little patina, appeared between those gorgeous breasts, that were heaving slowly as she began to lose control. And I started to grow with my thoughts surging through me like streams of fire, and I realized that nothing in this whole world, en todo del mundo, mattered but her and me, right then, este momento, and we headed for the couch.

April 4, 2009.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.