You were younger. Shoulder length, dirty blonde hair with a strawberry hint. Fine and thin without being too thin. Becoming in a way that would become only on you.
You lived on an entire floor of a brownstone walk-up. It was modest in appearance and make, despite its opulence in size.
A woolly sheep dog lies on the staircase leading to your floor. He is yours. The ground beneath is a terra cotta clay. Beneath his sleeping form, urine stains the carpet of the stairs. You note this as you let me in.
“I have not cleaned it yet. I took my straw rake to the puddle on the clay and swept it towards the floor drain. I photographed the patterns made.”
You usher me upstairs.
Three rooms are devoted to books. Two of the rooms contain bookcases, floor to ceiling and organized. The third room contains piles. Books stacked dischordantly, floor to ceiling.
You are proud.
You tell me you have three women in your life. All Spanish. España. You prefer one of the three. Though she is not present, your mention conjures her to my mind’s eye. She is much taller than you, with legs that “go all the way up.” Petite breasts and modest but flared hips.
She knows your books. That is why she is your favorite.
Her eyes are suspicious and cold; yet, I intuit this suits you very well.
I feel a painful bittersweet joy. I become self-conscious about my lack of tallness.
You take me to your balcony, perched directly over a high steep cliff being beaten mercilessly by waves.
I am fascinated by the scientific endeavor and I read about or engage with those processes as much as possible. I am a compulsive reader and writer. With a background in anthropology and as an arm-chair/backyard scientist, I hope to improve my writing skills and learn about any areas of weakness or misunderstanding in my analytic skills. I am excited to share. Thank you for spending time here. Please reach out if you are so inclined. I'd be excited to hear from you. View all posts by writtencasey