Points In Time by Sam Sutlive.
Three minutes to the dance,
The girl is late and the guy is too early.
He spazzes as he checks his gold leather rimmed pocket watch for the third time.
He doesn’t just check it,
But eight times consecutively in a row.
He is now looking up because a car passed but it is not the green Rabbit her mom usually drives
It is not the blue sixties Volvo Wagon her dad drives,
And it is definitely not her sisters blue grey nineties Jaguar.
He had been looking down at the gravel for so long he noticed a piece of white porcelain half buried in the rocks.
It had blue and green triangles on it and looked like it was from a bowl.
He had one min. left,
Before he did it,
Was going to go into the dance by himself like he did in middle school.
Before he got a conscious.
Before he cared what people thought.
Before he had to deal with peer pressure
And friends or acquaintance’s opinions.
There was a roar and a screech of tires.
He looked up as a he checked his watch,
It was time,
And if this wasn’t her he was going in.
She jumped out of a shiny grey diesel pickup truck,
A seventies model,
Her dress swept back in the air sweeping behind her, following her projected path to the spot in front of him.
“I am not even going to apologize,” she burst out, like she had been saying those lines in her head for the past half hour.
“But I will apologize and sweetly say I am sorry for making you anxious. I know how you get when you have to wait.”
“It doesn’t help when you get to our meeting rendezvous early!”
And the world stopped,
The city grew still,
The moment stretched on…
A moment within a moment
He jumped towards her,
Hugging as he made contact.
He was never happier to see her.
All he wanted to say and all he could hear in his head is “lets dance”
“Lets just dance.”
That was the real reason he had asked her to go.
Not a dance or one dance,
But plural, Dances.
Many Dances in One Big Night.
But for several seconds he did not say anything.
He just lost himself in the moment after the moment, which was the hug.
She saw that, the pause,
He ended up saying what he had been thinking the whole time.
“Please dance with me”
A Statement with a raised eyebrow,
A hint of a question,
As if he was daring her
Or allowing her, even Giving permission, to say “no thank you. I do not want to dance” the chance,
To pull out one last time.
None of those things happened,
A nod of the head and they went in.
And as you said,
What do you think?
That night as she ate dinner and watched the minutes pass through her family’s idiosyncrasies.
Her mom suddenly redirecting her voice.
What did you think about the wheelchair guy that blew himself up in China as a way of protest because no one that could effect consequences was listening.
No comment, I saw that on the news last year but was not paying attention as I am now not paying attention to your argument about politics and policies.
The ugly dinner* was still going on, her parents were arguing about politics and (internal dialogue until otherwise stated) her brother was making out with his chick, chick, that’s what he called her. UGG. Anyway Tommy was too young to understand anything, so he just ate and made shapes with his food.
“God!” or NO better yet! Jessuss All stretched out like that. The way Aunt Mary said it, with all that melancholy and emotion.
Anyway “Jessuss” “I wished I had a piece of paper and a pen.” My NOTEBOOK! Dam Why Do I always leave it, upstairs, during dinner. Of coarse I never think anything is going to happen AND of coarse something always happens that I want to express with the pen,
with the ink ,
with the paper.
The dance was such a perfect little story but now by the time I go upstairs and write it all out the words are going to be different.
“Maybe it will be better,” Harvey says.
Harvey the guy from next door respectively known as the chick’s father is always heard yelling, “Art is not putting something through a toothpaste tube.” “You can’t just squeeze the toothpaste out and make something great!”
*The words ”Ugly Dinner” were pulled and borrowed from Ciera Durden’s three-minute typewriter poem moderated by a third party in the Poetry Jam at Athica.
Originally written in Word on October 17, 2014 at 12:36AM, Updated in November 2014 in Word, and then posted here on February 27, 2015 at 1:30AM.