Creative Writing: (Lazy, Cool) Sunday Afternoon

On a lazy, cool
Sunday afternoon,
she sat still
dressed in old, worn Levi's,
a bleached stained, soft, black V-neck T,
and daisy patterned, black plastic flip-flops
smoking an American Spirit Light.

Music by Angelo Badalamenti
lent an eerie mood
to an otherwise
calm day.
A Douglas Adams book
lay waiting by her side
to be re-read
for an umpteenth time.

She took another drag
and contemplated chain-smoking
just for the hell of it.
She paused;
glanced between her
glass of cold water
and thermos of
apple cinnamon tea,
then took a sip from each
(though, not simultaneously),
but something ached within--
something she missed.

She pulled out
another cigarette
and rummaged around
for a pack of matches--
finding one that read,
“Yeah, I got a tattoo.
And no, you can’t see it.”
Yes, she had a tattoo
(one of a Joshua Tree),
but was happy to show it.

She had shown it
to the guy,
who had stolen her green lighter
yesterday
and, while she wanted
that lighter back,
this was not
what she missed.
And while she ached
for other reasons:
physical reasons--
her muscles were quite sore
after a long, hard day’s work--
what she missed,
what she ached for
were people--
the company of others
with which to laugh,
to shine love on
(whether they liked her
or not),
to observe and study,
and share stories with--
people.

The month was November
and, aside from yesterday,
she hadn’t worked
on a film set
since January.
And though the work
was hard
and left her body
bruised and sore,
it was the people--
the company
of like-minded people
she missed
the most.

And here she was
on a lazy, cool
Sunday afternoon
after having woken
when she wanted to
with no alarm set
or place to be
ready to resume
her writing
and editing
and submitting
and pursuing
her dream
of becoming
a published author--
something she desired since,
well,
her whole life.
But a writer’s life
can be quite lonely
at times.

And so she ached
and so she missed
and so she longed for
the company of other
like-minded people,
while listening to
the sad,
soft,
whispery voice
of Julee Cruise
as Myrrh incense
wafted through the air
like mist
on this
lazy, cool
Sunday afternoon.