Him, her and the new adventure

We never made it past San Francisco. We stopped there and stayed for over a week. He loved it. And it was growing on me. It took some time, but even after a week I started to get used to the streets, the way people do business, how to act around employees to get a decent latte. He found an apartment too, which surprised both of us after realizing the first day of semi-looking that you basically need to hire someone or landlords won’t take you seriously.

It’s got a great view. And apparently the place was recently renovated and re-decorated by some famous interior designer. Well he must only be famous in San Fran because I’ve never seen him on HGTV or in Home and Garden. There’s a bay window, which is great. I’ve always adored bay windows. So I told him if he got the apartment, even if we had a dispute that would keep me from talking to him, I’d come over still just for the window. That seemed to reassure him somewhat. The great thing too is that the guy was offering it for a decent price. But he’s still looking for a job before he signs anything. He had better find one soon too or else that apartment’s gone. There was a gay couple looking at it too. We passed them as they were on their way out. They couldn’t stop talking about the designer too. “Oh my god, can you believe it! An original design from (fill in hot name here)!” “Oh I know! And that bay window!” Hearing the words “bay window” come out of that man’s mouth almost made me knock them over as I dashed inside.

Anyway, he’s out looking for a job right now. There are some leads too. It’s crazy how fast this is all happening. One mile we’re enjoying an open road and the next we’re helping him find a job and an apartment.

Me? Well I’ve been considering this move. I really can’t imagine a life away from him, not romantically of course. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I never considered the idea. It’s not like he hasn’t either. Maybe. We never really talked about that to each other. All my other friends think we’re just made for each other. Or that we spend so much time together we might as well get married. I’ll admit, there were brief moments while looking at that apartment that I toyed with the idea that that bay window could actually be mine as well. Not just as an unspoken agreement between the two of us, but actually on paper.

Anyway, I picked up the September issue of Vogue the other day and I’ve been pouring over it every spare chance I get. I love the clothes and the colors but I also read Vogue for the editorials because, despite what the opinions and views others own, Vogue can actually write some great stuff on matters other than fashion. For example, their article on Jon Huntsman, one of the men running for the Republican slot for the 2012 election. I won’t go into all the details about the article or Huntsman, but the article’s there. But reading Vogue made me think about a career in fashion. Maybe not the clothes portion, but writing about the clothes, critiquing the clothes. I don’t know if I could ever be the next Anna Wintour, but maybe I’ve got a knack for fashion. I just don’t know if I could ever get on board with some of the styles that are hot right now. Well I just heard about Bay Fashion Magazine. Maybe I’ll start applying there. Who knows? I could work my up to some higher position in Vogue. The dreamer’s dream. Needless to say, I don’t think I’ll be moving to San Francisco anytime soon. Not unless something big is offered my way. For now, I’ll assist my best friend in finding a job and getting the apartment of his dreams (and bay window of mine) and then I’ll fly back home. I’ve already posted the VW for sale online and have had several offers. Apparently the bus is worth much more than what I paid for because I’m getting some pretty high offers. I’m about the finalize the deal later today. So I’ll fly back home, go back to work (grateful they allowed me to take such a long vacation and still return) and figure things out from there. We’re beginning new adventures now.


Him, her and the poem

She had been scribbling furiously for about two hours. They sat on the side of a forgotten road, waiting out the rainstorm that had bombarded them for the past hour. It had been morning since they passed the last town and they were both hoping and praying another would be around the next corner, maybe three corners at the most. But neither of them could see with the rain so they soon pulled over to wait it out. To save on gas, they had turned the van off. There was no music. No conversation. She wrote. He occasionally drummed his fingers on the steering wheel until she asked him to stop, getting more adamant with each request – she had made seven.

He looked around for something to read, but found nothing of immediate interest. He had read just about everything in their current collection and gone through the two issues of Wired about three times each. He even sifted through the August issue of Vogue.

His next search was for food. Sometimes boredom did get the best of him and he would look for something to snack on. He tried not to let it happen too often. Unfortunately, though, he found nothing. They would have to restock at the next town too. With nothing else to really search for, he sat in the driver’s seat, staring out at the driving rain, twiddling his thumbs, an action that surprised him. Who twiddles their thumbs anymore?

“Ok. I’m done. Wow, it’s really raining,” she said looking up from her notebook.

“You’re just noticing? Why do you think we pulled over?”

“We’ve pulled over?”

He sighed.

“What have you been writing anyway?”

“A poem.”

“Can I read it?”

“No. Maybe. I don’t know if it’s ready.”

“How else will you know unless you get someone else’s opinion?”

“I guess.” She sat for a moment, contemplating the potential results of reading it and not reading it.

“Ok. But no making fun!”


“Alright. It doesn’t have a title, so I’m just reading from beginning to end.”



Somewhere he sits –
(generic) no name who
enjoys his women dark-haired
and dark-eyed, eclectic –
his music odd and
underground –
his gin dirty, his whiskey straight –
he sits writing
profound poetry of the soul
just around the corner from the diner
you want to frequent
and on the night they ruined
the blueberry pie,
you walk around the corner

He paused, waiting to see if that was the end.

“So?” she asked.

He waited even longer, thinking about the poem, what it meant, and the way her voice changed to something deep and subtle when she read it, like she had finished smoking a cigarette and a glass of bourbon in a smokey bar at night. He wanted to applaud, but thought the confined space of the van and the lack of other people, a bar, and a stage would make it seem like he was mocking her.

“Say something,” she said, almost pleading.

“It took you two hours to write that?”

“Yes. Why?” Her voice was guarded, ready to strike at any insult.

“It’s good, that’s all. I’ve heard most people read good stuff after working on it for days, weeks, sometimes even years.”

“Well, it’s not finished. I’m sure I’ll find something to change down the road.”

“The literal road, or the metaphorical one?”

“Maybe both.”


They sat and looked out the window. It had stopped raining.

“Look, it stopped raining! Let’s go find a town!” she said pumping her first into the air, slightly though so as not to punch a hole through the van’s interior ceiling.