So I'll give you a little background on this one...
You know when you meet someone for the first time, when you're "crushing" on them, well... a friend of mine refers to this as them having sparkles. It embraces that new, neat feeling of specialness someone has when you first meet them and when they still have that new car smell. :-) You know, they light up the room when they enter type sparkles.
Or, you can throw that definition completely out the window and use something else. You just can't do literal sparkling things. No "the snow sparkles on the empty field."
Can we make this due February 2, instead of next Monday? I think we'll have more success, considering out schedules, if we don't bust our ass trying to put it out.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Transitions
"There is something sexy about the way a woman looks in an evening dress," he said, sidling up to her at the bar.
Sarina flipped her hair back over her shoulder and regarded the gentleman. Older, probably mid-40s, salt-and-pepper hair, in decent shape. Stereotypical corporate vice president. She guessed the conversation would turn to his dreams of writing and moving to Hawaii, with the expectation that the night would end in a crumpled heap beneath the sheets in his penthouse. "What's that?"
"I said, there is something sexy about the way a woman looks in an evening dress," he repeated. After a pause, he stuck out his hand. "Mark."
Of course it is, she thought, good, solid overly masculine name. "Sarina. Sarina Carlysle."
"That's a lovely name, Miss Carlysle... it is Miss, isn't it?"
She held up her hand.
His smile filled the typicalness of this back-and-forth. Laugh lines, but good ones. Along the eyes, at the corners of his mouth. Enough to show that he'd lived, but not too many so that he looked old. Sarina wondered where he tanned. It was a good tan job -- a difficult commodity in this city but one that was desperately needed in the midst of the winter. Maybe he had just come back from vacation? No, she figured, the tan had a hint of orange that indicated perhaps a base overlaid by spray. "What brings you to this dump?" Mark pressed, taking the initiative to pull up a faded and torn bar stool next to her. The chair matched the decor -- grimy -- the kind of place that, even though smoking was outlawed years ago, maintained the smell for years in the very pores of the walls.
"Needed a break, and a drink."
"And the evening dress?"
She smacked her lips and set down her drink, tossing her head back slightly and giving an ironic chuckle. "A girl's got to feel pretty." Her eyes moved to his tie. "And the suit?"
Mark gestured for the bartender for a new beer and indicated that her next was him. "A girl's got to feel pretty."
It was enough to make her laugh. At least, she thought, he had a sense of humor.
---
Mark admired Sarina. She was perfect -- blond, big breasts, nice hips, charming, and elegant. And, though the red evening gown suggested a story for the night, she was leaning easily on the dirty bar and ordering whiskey sours. Though a little too frou-frou for his taste, it was not the martini or cosmopolitan he had come to expect out of her type.
The conversation progressed easily. Mild flirtation, interspersed with actual conversation. For every jab he put out, she played on back, and she seemed eager and engaged in his wish to pursue writing and move to Hawaii. Her eyes had glimmered a little when he told her about the book in his head. It was a masterpiece, he felt, and it would revolutionize the world. People would read it for generations. Graciously, she had asked the plot, and he had teased her with silence.
Overall, it had been a good pick up, and one that he was sure would end up in tousled mess back at her place.
He never brought women home. It was too messy in the morning.
Sarina had just finished her third or fourth drink -- to be honest, he had had more than he had expected and had lost count of his tab, so was unaware of just how tipsy he had become. She sighed. "Well, Mark, it is a school night, I must off for the evening."
He glanced at his watch. Shit. It was one a.m. A weekday woman should have taken much less time than this. "Yea." She started to get up. "Hey, you know that place you mentioned earlier... the restaurant?" In truth, he could not remember if she had mentioned a restaurant, or if that was the woman the night before... or was it something he had made up? Memories and conversations were starting to collect and intersect at a point just beyond his grasp.
"McCullough's?"
"Yea..." Thank God. "Yea, that one."
"What about it?"
"Do they serve breakfast?"
She stopped fussing with her purse and looked him dead in his eyes. They were green. Lovely. "Yea, I think so. It's not bad." She threw the strap of her bad over her purse. "Let me just go to the water closet... fix my make-up, you know." She gestured the bartender. "Get him one, on me, darling." The bartender nodded and moved away. Mark suddenly realized they were the only two in the bar, and the man had been hanging by all night. That would explain the alcoholic haze, and the likelihood of a high tab for the evening.
The sounds of heels clicking on the broken hard wood floor followed her away, and he watched as she moved between pool tables to the back of the bar. Click, click, click. Mark had a fantasy of her on the pool table with just the heels. Click, click, click.. clank. The bartender announced the arrival of a fresh beer.
Taking a swig, he tried to return his gaze to Sarina, whom he was sure had just walked into the men's bathroom.
I'm drunk, and he turned back to watch the muted television while he waited.
---
Hm. That was easy, Sarina thought as she touched up her makeup. Idiot. He was lucky she could come up with the name of a restaurant that quickly, else leave him feeling like an idiot. Probably some other woman he had met this week mentioned a restaurant. Idiot. And he was turning out to be such a nice guy, too.
She walked up to the urinal, pulled down the front of her pantyhose, and peed, double checking that the front door was locked. Though she wished she could finish off the surgeries, it was becoming too much fun to see the look on their faces when they realize.
But Mark was nice enough, and, after a few more drinks, he won't care where he was sticking it.
Sarina flipped her hair back over her shoulder and regarded the gentleman. Older, probably mid-40s, salt-and-pepper hair, in decent shape. Stereotypical corporate vice president. She guessed the conversation would turn to his dreams of writing and moving to Hawaii, with the expectation that the night would end in a crumpled heap beneath the sheets in his penthouse. "What's that?"
"I said, there is something sexy about the way a woman looks in an evening dress," he repeated. After a pause, he stuck out his hand. "Mark."
Of course it is, she thought, good, solid overly masculine name. "Sarina. Sarina Carlysle."
"That's a lovely name, Miss Carlysle... it is Miss, isn't it?"
She held up her hand.
His smile filled the typicalness of this back-and-forth. Laugh lines, but good ones. Along the eyes, at the corners of his mouth. Enough to show that he'd lived, but not too many so that he looked old. Sarina wondered where he tanned. It was a good tan job -- a difficult commodity in this city but one that was desperately needed in the midst of the winter. Maybe he had just come back from vacation? No, she figured, the tan had a hint of orange that indicated perhaps a base overlaid by spray. "What brings you to this dump?" Mark pressed, taking the initiative to pull up a faded and torn bar stool next to her. The chair matched the decor -- grimy -- the kind of place that, even though smoking was outlawed years ago, maintained the smell for years in the very pores of the walls.
"Needed a break, and a drink."
"And the evening dress?"
She smacked her lips and set down her drink, tossing her head back slightly and giving an ironic chuckle. "A girl's got to feel pretty." Her eyes moved to his tie. "And the suit?"
Mark gestured for the bartender for a new beer and indicated that her next was him. "A girl's got to feel pretty."
It was enough to make her laugh. At least, she thought, he had a sense of humor.
---
Mark admired Sarina. She was perfect -- blond, big breasts, nice hips, charming, and elegant. And, though the red evening gown suggested a story for the night, she was leaning easily on the dirty bar and ordering whiskey sours. Though a little too frou-frou for his taste, it was not the martini or cosmopolitan he had come to expect out of her type.
The conversation progressed easily. Mild flirtation, interspersed with actual conversation. For every jab he put out, she played on back, and she seemed eager and engaged in his wish to pursue writing and move to Hawaii. Her eyes had glimmered a little when he told her about the book in his head. It was a masterpiece, he felt, and it would revolutionize the world. People would read it for generations. Graciously, she had asked the plot, and he had teased her with silence.
Overall, it had been a good pick up, and one that he was sure would end up in tousled mess back at her place.
He never brought women home. It was too messy in the morning.
Sarina had just finished her third or fourth drink -- to be honest, he had had more than he had expected and had lost count of his tab, so was unaware of just how tipsy he had become. She sighed. "Well, Mark, it is a school night, I must off for the evening."
He glanced at his watch. Shit. It was one a.m. A weekday woman should have taken much less time than this. "Yea." She started to get up. "Hey, you know that place you mentioned earlier... the restaurant?" In truth, he could not remember if she had mentioned a restaurant, or if that was the woman the night before... or was it something he had made up? Memories and conversations were starting to collect and intersect at a point just beyond his grasp.
"McCullough's?"
"Yea..." Thank God. "Yea, that one."
"What about it?"
"Do they serve breakfast?"
She stopped fussing with her purse and looked him dead in his eyes. They were green. Lovely. "Yea, I think so. It's not bad." She threw the strap of her bad over her purse. "Let me just go to the water closet... fix my make-up, you know." She gestured the bartender. "Get him one, on me, darling." The bartender nodded and moved away. Mark suddenly realized they were the only two in the bar, and the man had been hanging by all night. That would explain the alcoholic haze, and the likelihood of a high tab for the evening.
The sounds of heels clicking on the broken hard wood floor followed her away, and he watched as she moved between pool tables to the back of the bar. Click, click, click. Mark had a fantasy of her on the pool table with just the heels. Click, click, click.. clank. The bartender announced the arrival of a fresh beer.
Taking a swig, he tried to return his gaze to Sarina, whom he was sure had just walked into the men's bathroom.
I'm drunk, and he turned back to watch the muted television while he waited.
---
Hm. That was easy, Sarina thought as she touched up her makeup. Idiot. He was lucky she could come up with the name of a restaurant that quickly, else leave him feeling like an idiot. Probably some other woman he had met this week mentioned a restaurant. Idiot. And he was turning out to be such a nice guy, too.
She walked up to the urinal, pulled down the front of her pantyhose, and peed, double checking that the front door was locked. Though she wished she could finish off the surgeries, it was becoming too much fun to see the look on their faces when they realize.
But Mark was nice enough, and, after a few more drinks, he won't care where he was sticking it.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Transitions
We watched and did nothing as the world collapsed around us in an economic crisis the likes of which have not been seen since the 1930s. First the housing industry shut down: no one was buying or building homes. Residential developers had no clients – no home buyers. Their assets included large tracts of land, big ideas, and lots of potential profit. But all these were now fallow with taxes and mounting debt. They were bankrupt. By extension the dependents of residential developers, those contractors, sub-contractors, architects, and engineers, were the second to experience belt-tightening, then collapse. Commercial and industrial developers were sucked into this vortex of economic decline as fear dried up money sources and buyers. Projects either never began or stood silent, unfinished like skeletons weathering the elements. No work; no jobs.
We watched in the beginning as gas prices skyrocketed and the car industry was hit. At four dollars a gallon, people couldn’t afford new cars, or to even drive the gas guzzlers they had bought the year before. So the car manufacturing industry collapsed and thousands of workers were put on the street: workers whose loyalty was repaid with two days notice of termination. By extension, the dependent businesses – the dealers, showrooms, and used car lots – closed down. These businesses had been the backbone of many communities, having underwritten their town’s little league teams, soup kitchens, and church outreach programs. Later gas prices were to plummet to a buck-sixty a gallon. Probably a gesture by the oil companies to save the car industry and their own sales; but it was too late for the dependents. Their closure was final.
We watched as friends were laid off. Their struggle was difficult to watch, so we didn’t. We turned away from their needs to offer a prayer of thanksgiving that it wasn’t us, that we still had jobs, an income, and an uninterrupted lifestyle. We could be sympathetic but did we understand? We didn’t. So we went on with our lives.
Then, it was our turn. First we lost one job. He was an architect: skilled, educated, licensed, and experienced. Told on a Thursday, out of work on Friday. No notice, no processing time, no two weeks, just here today-gone tomorrow. The military calls this tactic “shock and awe” where you stun your opponent then overwhelm them. This was sensory overload, stunned beyond response. You walk away from the announcement stunned and confused. You get in the car, but can’t remember the way home. You pull off the road to try to think, but you can’t. You call your spouse – dead silence. Then two minds become one. How were we going to pay the bills? Keep the roof over our heads? Take care of our dependents? How? How? How?
We had watched. We had been aware of what was happening around us. We knew it could happen to us. But we had done nothing.
We watched in the beginning as gas prices skyrocketed and the car industry was hit. At four dollars a gallon, people couldn’t afford new cars, or to even drive the gas guzzlers they had bought the year before. So the car manufacturing industry collapsed and thousands of workers were put on the street: workers whose loyalty was repaid with two days notice of termination. By extension, the dependent businesses – the dealers, showrooms, and used car lots – closed down. These businesses had been the backbone of many communities, having underwritten their town’s little league teams, soup kitchens, and church outreach programs. Later gas prices were to plummet to a buck-sixty a gallon. Probably a gesture by the oil companies to save the car industry and their own sales; but it was too late for the dependents. Their closure was final.
We watched as friends were laid off. Their struggle was difficult to watch, so we didn’t. We turned away from their needs to offer a prayer of thanksgiving that it wasn’t us, that we still had jobs, an income, and an uninterrupted lifestyle. We could be sympathetic but did we understand? We didn’t. So we went on with our lives.
Then, it was our turn. First we lost one job. He was an architect: skilled, educated, licensed, and experienced. Told on a Thursday, out of work on Friday. No notice, no processing time, no two weeks, just here today-gone tomorrow. The military calls this tactic “shock and awe” where you stun your opponent then overwhelm them. This was sensory overload, stunned beyond response. You walk away from the announcement stunned and confused. You get in the car, but can’t remember the way home. You pull off the road to try to think, but you can’t. You call your spouse – dead silence. Then two minds become one. How were we going to pay the bills? Keep the roof over our heads? Take care of our dependents? How? How? How?
We had watched. We had been aware of what was happening around us. We knew it could happen to us. But we had done nothing.
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