We drive around with the windows down and talk about what there is left to do, conscious ideas on individuality and duality and another-ality we can come up with. If there hasn’t been anything original since the greats, then isn’t it safe to say one can be at least bold in their imitation? How then can we make something, or be someone worth more than what came before?
You’re not the first person to kiss me in the bathroom.
There is an art in the way we’re living, a lack of distinguishing between generations. My mother tells me in the afternoon light of the kitchen, while I am waiting for you, that I look so much like her in 1974 it sometimes feels like she’s having lunch with her own ghost.
You pick me up, and from the backseat I repeat it to you, over the music but my words are lost in the open window. It lacks power without her presence anyway: her hand on her hip, the frying pan on the stove.
We drive around town and try to make something out of the heat and the crisscrossed nothing kind of Los Angeles streets we are given. You tell me I look good. I never ask anymore where we’re going. Someone is singing with the radio and my hair smells like cloves.
We keep the windows down while we drive, let the wind change our mind.
We find our favorite dimly lit space and sit under the fans. Hours fold in on themselves and there is more promise in a bar booth than the rest of this country, so we get lost in it. We decide, partially because we have to, that whatever will be will be, and what shall be shall will be done.
We debate getting tattoos on the inside of our forearms so we remember in the morning. You whisper in my ear, I’ll remind you, and where do you want to go next?