He passed the age to thrash one night on the highway. He wrinkled his nose as if he smelled skunk faintly, stinkweed maybe. In a moment it was gone. His mouth opened, tongue lolled toward the front of his puffy face.
These scars are stories, he liked to say to first time but soon forgotten friends. He had taken to making up the stories, getting more unbelievable with every telling.
There was no one along for the ride tonight. This wasn’t his car anymore. It never was to begin. It was something youth borrowed and was now returning overdue.
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July 28, 2007 at 7:25 am
No Ranch House in Santa Fe
Laying there face heavenward she saw what it should be. Not the central image but the reflection. Scrawled and blocked on a canvas rectangle, and rabbit skin ground:
a pot on a stove, strewn flowers , and carefully sketched in the belly of the pot a reflection of the artist painting the still life. Two distinct images combined, one set against the other a visual melody. Standing now, hands raised ready to attack her nemesis again.
“No that’s just damn stupid,” she took a rag and wiping the wet sepia furiously left a brown smear. “Lets start again,” she said.