5 may 2010
During the fall of six o’clock, Teddy the Tractable observed the many marital potentials throughout the pit. A father tying three kids to his shirt hem and cuff, eyes darting. He seemed portent to snap. His temporal vein was as bright as the bags under his eyes and his daughter vibrated hyperactively with a balloon disturbing the spirit. Not an Elektra Complex, though. Teddy knew it wasn't that. The baby in the carriage, probably just about a year, sucked on its thumb, which was attached to a tiny bottle. The girl dribbled the rubber on his dangling chain of keys and he eyed her, then huffed, then eyed a blank space that provided patience. Teddy rubbed the ringing out his ears. Perhaps his daughter would grow into him. He rose from the energy. Inflation afloat that stressed the serenity was a supplement to her nomination as well. Moments passed and his patience was already as cadaverous as the escalator being penetrated by the carriage. He feared fearing solitude, which would antagonize him with ideas of fear itself. It was a cycle at six o’clock, he knew. He sat in the pit, birthing the settlement of SPD he was home to. His own lethargy; his reassurance. He knew. A woman’s diamonds met the festive lights hanging from the second-storey balcony and he saw her flapper-painted face. Red lipstick, bright mouth, moderate smoke eyes. Her buttons pinned tight to her pea coat; her nails flossed like candy displays on Springdale in 1940. But she resembled strength. Sternness struck and stuck. The genetic strength of original labor workers; the supposed demeanor of that sooty mangabey. And her skin slid roughly under the tending to and creams. Beneath the feminism so present in gripping and grabbing husky crops and hauling them in sweaty bags for more humid work by their breeding mates, or husbands. Perhaps it was the ladylikeness of a civilly moving urban theatre arts performer, muscles cut through the forearm and the thighs, body probably stiff in a summer dress no matter the product radiance. They were all fighting for civility. Her arms were outspread in the relation of the Venn Diagram. But on the side where beating was less through love, the Nightingale rocked their equal distinction and performance. And they developed the same bone structure and they gave the same strength. Teddy shuddered, deciding that she was fading in potential. A fragile woman rushed in maroon pants. He let her go. He scratched his dirty head and carved the residue from his nails. Everything was yellow. The conurbation combusted like the West Side of town in 1994. Everything was far from flaccid. Eyes opened, necks sturdy. When the time arrived, he’d wonder how he succeeded a point so rejected; so low. She hadn’t even heard his voice, which would have drawn her in, let alone. He liked to believe he was well spoken. Monotonous and enunciating. She wouldn’t suspect the appearance but the appeal. But it was never the appeal but the impression. His ticket read ten o’clock when the matinee was over. A date. Loneliness inviting. Lowliness inviting. A big, serene date, balloons disturbing between but eventually setting his amorous masculinity free. Combustion like in 1994; jocularity like in 1940. He rubbed the ringing out his ears and smoothed his hair parted to the left. He saw purple at the corner of his eye. It was seven o’clock already. A whole day’s passed. Chimes rang. He flashed. Trickery understandably afloat. Teenagers planning on retreating to the garage.