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One Evening, Five Senses
May. 8th, 2002 11:50 pmI saw the sunset tonight from 35,000 feet. Slate grey clouds below, amethyst sky above. In between, a thin, lumpy ribbon of glowing red the color of rubies backlit and smoldering in hot coals.
The scent of an airport, upon disembarkment: kerosene half-burned, warm concrete, fried foods, carpet cleaner, stale beer, shoe polish, newspaper print. Weary bodies.
The drive home, flipping stations. Earshot, Midnight Oil, Beastie Boys. I get home and check my mail, hearing a party in the building next to mine. Walking back, I hear water from a drain hitting the pavement. I look up, and it's not a drain. One of the partiers is pissing off the side of his 3rd story balcony. This is a nice neighborhood, really. I'm kinda hoping he's drunk enough to fall off. Like, an hour from now when I'm not around to resuscitate.
The pots on my deck hold rough, powdery soil. The water I pour goes through my fingers, cool in the light evening breeze, as I sprinkle the pepper and tomato leaves. They're still springy and upright despite the dryness. It's as warm and dry as the soil in my apartment -- the power went out while I was gone, kicking off the AC.
Ahead, next to my bed, awaits the smokey taste of a 14 year old single malt scotch. Oban -- the taste is masculine, but erotic; a hint of salty tang, a mild bite, an aftertaste warming the tongue and throat. Even after, the flavor pulses; rising and falling across the palate with each drawn breath.
----
One evening, Five senses. Tell me yours.
The scent of an airport, upon disembarkment: kerosene half-burned, warm concrete, fried foods, carpet cleaner, stale beer, shoe polish, newspaper print. Weary bodies.
The drive home, flipping stations. Earshot, Midnight Oil, Beastie Boys. I get home and check my mail, hearing a party in the building next to mine. Walking back, I hear water from a drain hitting the pavement. I look up, and it's not a drain. One of the partiers is pissing off the side of his 3rd story balcony. This is a nice neighborhood, really. I'm kinda hoping he's drunk enough to fall off. Like, an hour from now when I'm not around to resuscitate.
The pots on my deck hold rough, powdery soil. The water I pour goes through my fingers, cool in the light evening breeze, as I sprinkle the pepper and tomato leaves. They're still springy and upright despite the dryness. It's as warm and dry as the soil in my apartment -- the power went out while I was gone, kicking off the AC.
Ahead, next to my bed, awaits the smokey taste of a 14 year old single malt scotch. Oban -- the taste is masculine, but erotic; a hint of salty tang, a mild bite, an aftertaste warming the tongue and throat. Even after, the flavor pulses; rising and falling across the palate with each drawn breath.
----
One evening, Five senses. Tell me yours.
