The meadow is alive at dusk, as the sun waves goodbye with a shower of blue and pink and orange. The blanket is spread out, like it always is. The cracker, the cheese, all have found their place. Joe shuffles the ice, a wine bottle tucked in between the cold shaved bits.
Joe waits. Joe waits not with longing, not with worry, but with a quiet assuredness.
Just then, just as always, a branch breaks behind Joe in the meadow. He hears the footsteps that started with a snap and a bounce slow into flat, low thuds.
“Made it,” Joe says.
“Always do,” Mike says, running his fingers over the quilt and taking a seat on the blanket.
Joe uncorks the wine. The western sky makes its slow turn from the brilliance of light into a despairing darkness that will soon grasp the east.
“It’s your turn to ask,” Joe says.
“Thought it was yours,” Mike replies.
“Don’t matter,” Joe says. His gaze goes from the sky to the ground, his head falters as if in prayer. “We both ask it everyday, anyway.”
“How did we get here?” Mike whispers, as the wind throws the corners of the blanket into the air.
3 comments:
I don't want to be rude, but I am definitely getting a "Brokeback Mountain" feel from this. Not that there is anything wrong with that.
October 9, 2009 at 8:55 PMI think it's a tone developing throughout the Ed Hopper NBA previews. Trying to mimic any form of modernism is just resulting in us making every NBA player look like a repressed homosexual.
October 9, 2009 at 9:12 PMNot that there's anything wrong with that.
The last line "how did we get here" really works for me when I reflect on all the draft mistakes the Hawks have made. Yet they still found a way to be a team on the rise.
October 9, 2009 at 9:13 PMPost a Comment