She had to stop, finally. Stop and let it all catch up. For christs sake! she was third person self-referential… couple hundred miles north of LA. (that is confidential). She clear broke some memory divide back in November, cause November was gone. She knew she would hold out on herself until November. Now here she had overplayed herself, overworked her sedentary nerve, shit. This was no joke. ER material. Like microwaving your bagel a minute beyond life. The day in the life of some bread. From soft sweet breakfast treat to hard candy red. To go screaming across the sea of head and neck buoys, direct into the goiter of (too much information).
His tired eyes rose like a dawn rocker of the mission style rhetoric. Five fingers down low asking for a slow ball over grande central station. He was used to being on standby, or standby rotation. He blamed this on his eyes. Poor tired eggwhites, dark marbles in the middle. The kind of eyes that stare at you and permit you one last breath.
The hands gripped down on twelve oclock. The trial had ended by then. He was clearly innocent. Turned and smiled toward his only friend. Caught the yellowed teeth of one of his many hated accusers, instead. Where was she?
Meet the opposing party’s interpreter at the bistro two blocks down from city lights. Where the long legged gal in white tights butters up to wheat ciabatta. Ha. There she was! Drinking her bombay tonic and his. Saphirre in her eyes. Somebody’s damages would cover the lunch check.
The olive oil days were over. He should have known. He beat his head into the mahoganey like Perry Mason lost a case. So began the vinegar taste in the back of his throat, phase. He felt a feeling he knew well. All his bones shifted like some skeleton robot gone up and shorted out. Computer dissociative.
Off some where walking now with the interpreter was the girl. Saturnine with a lemon twist. Her freckles, sun kissed. The new fucking smart phone attache foreplay. Distraction impact high and non-resistant. She made a lovely nouveau interpreter’s assistant.
Not no store bought, this jam he had got himself in now, praying with a cigarrette out on the steps of the halls of justice. This jam was more like apricot preserves or some shit. Some district attorney’s intern’s intern, gave him a menacing look and an evil eye. No smoking on the steps to the halls of justice. Dummy.