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So There
So Sane Magazine is not going to run this week.
We're sorry, just, well, there it is.
There.
Look, we give and we give, yet... Yet nothing, actually.
It's been ten plus long years, and another one's ticking by, possibly right while you read this very thing.
This thing saying, "I'm sorry, but no issue this week." We may have added a 'Bub' at the end, by the time you read this.
Yeah, that's right, even if your name's not Bub.
It'd be a nice sort of pithy name to have, very substantial. Direct, to the point. Nonsensical just a little bit, for those times for which nonsense is called.
Like Thursdays, late afternoon. When the sun's starting to think about setting, and you're sitting on her verandah, enjoying the view. Actually, that's a lie, you're not enjoying the view at all. You're panicked.
Because she's about to come back with lemonade, and it's been a nice, lovely afternoon on which you've shared many laughs, and her porch swing. And you can't tell which made you feel better, the porch swing or her laughter.
And let me tell you, you've always liked porch swings. The creaky chains adding to the feeling that you had that you were swimming underwater. Which is weird, I know, to hear it come out like that, but that's what it did.
She got up when the sun throttled down to a nice orange-reddish colour, and headed inside. And you, well, you, Bub, sat on the front porch, the 'vur-anne-duh', she called it.
And you waited, almost with bated breath.
And she comes back out, with a sweater on and a plate, on which sits the lemonade, and you realise that she isn't bringing the lemonade for her own benefit, it's for you.
So you tell her thanks, as she sets down the plate on the table to your side, and isn't the sun going down nice, you say, while she settles back into the porch swing, and arranges her skirts and her self across the slats, painted green and still smooth and glistening.
You're not sure, but she seems to be ever so slightly closer this time round, when you turn back with her glass and your own, and you have much less of a distance to reach out to her now when you hand her her lemonade.
And she takes it, without touching your fingers, but her fingers cause little dewdrops to skate down and parachute on to your fingers as you let go and pull away, like little paratroopers in an action movie, and your hand is the airplane pulling away with the President held hostage somewhere on board. You feel like you should say this out loud, but you don't.
Your shoes make a scratching sound on the porch deck, which hasn't been swept in a few days, likely, not since the plant was knocked over by the dog, running off the leash around to the back door via the porch, the street, the front lawn, the driveway, the path beside the garage, the back lawn, and then up the back stairs, somewhere near it's water dish, as of yet the only thing in the kitchen that's wet. When the dog drinks that usually changes.
The sun goes down with the lemonade, and it's not so cold out that you need your jacket any more, even though she seems to.
And even though there's no Sane Magazine out this week you're one damn lucky guy, Bub.
disclaimer:
You've also been a great audience, thanks. Enjoy your thing.
In this new year.
From us.
At Sane Magazine.
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Yer Weekly Horoscopes.