Thank Days, Great Stuff

She shuffled around in the kitchen

I was stuck on the couch

Wondering what she could be doing

She had just arrived

Came through the door like a hurricane

Speaking about the traffic

The snowbirds

The lines

All the time her simple drive took

I can hear her moving chairs

I can hear her opening and closing cupboards

I try to imagine what she’s doing

She whips back into the room

She puts two glasses on the table

And pulls a bottle of rum from a paper bag

She pulls off the top

And fills both glasses to the top

No room for soda

No room for ice

It’s going to be one of those evenings

Thank days, great stuff

She takes a strong pull and jumps off the couch

In a mere second she’s gone

She’s back in the kitchen, rummaging again

What more could she possibly need?

After a minute

The kitchen falls quiet

Just the noise from a piano and trumpet on my radio

Then I hear talking

A low mumbling which I can’t make out

If she’s talking to me she’ll have to come back in here

But she does not

She’s on my phone

No idea who she’s talking to

I guess it makes no difference

I notice her half empty glass of rum

I pick up my glass and use it to refill hers

She can drink it lukewarm

I want mine with ice

So I grab both glasses

And make my way to the kitchen

She’s seated at the table

With her head in one hand

And the phone in the other

I place her now full glass in front of her

She says nothing

She seems to be listening intently

I put ice in my glass

And head back to the couch

I think again, about who she might be talking to

But the thought passes quickly

I reach over

And turn up the volume

Coltrane is on, now

And I enjoy his company

More than she enjoys mine

© D J Loweman 2015

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