Fourteen Minutes or Two Swallows of Wine

I will have pushed 'Publish' and headed upstairs to sleep for an early morning jaunt with Arnie to Glo's for eggs Benedict. Well, at least that's what I'll be eating—I don't know about Arnie. I am trying to close my eyes so that I will type faster and I am trying to ignore the lyrics of this Bon Iver album so they do not infect my writing.

I closed my eyes and tried to write an email late Saturday night, a drunken email to one lucky recipient, but all I managed were two nonsensical introductory paragraphs before the closed eyes turned to real sleep.

I perch now precariously at the edge of a living room chair, facing inward toward my laptop with a glass of Cab close by, a cheap splash from a $10 bottle whose flavors slipped away easily beneath couscous and salad and a yam and a delicious new chicken recipe. I rubbed chicken thighs with salt and pepper and cayenne and paprika and brown sugar and then cooked them long and slow, covered in the oven with slices of red onion and chicken stock for good measure.

I avoid an email now to a different (lucky?) recipient. I, in fact, blog somewhat nonsensically so that I will not write a specific email but my fingers will still feel sated. I can dance around that email with discussion of excessive dinners and insufficient wine and having watched the season premiere of Entourage this evening. Oh, Vinny Chase, you're so lonely despite your fame and success!

That email, and the messages it would invariably carry, will be wrapped and entwined in nonsense, safely hidden from view, tied up far away from this night's dreams. I will sleep on a full belly and a head willfully pointed at the happiness of a Tuesday, the truth of joyful plans for breakfast, work, lunch, and dinner.

And now the wine is gone and the clock is done. I'll see you tomorrow, 'neath the summer sun. Or, as it were, Seattle gray.