Scott Robinson (quadhome) wrote,

Ominous

I hadn’t seen her nor had she even entered my mind for over half a year. “Ambivalent” sums up how my emotions to her were and still are. But my lips were tasting her neck; her legs wrapped my hips from my lap; both our hands were sliding across the other’s body and pushing our shirts upward to that inevitable conflict of who would be without first.

It couldn’t be real. So, I woke up and opened my eyes to see the beginnings of dawn through my curtains. The lemon tree in the garden silhouetted by the slowly brightening blue sky behind it. After almost two months of preparing for morning classes, I didn’t need a watch to know it was slightly after 6am. What a stupid and responsible time to rouse for my last day in San Pedro.

Trying to carry on dreaming wasn’t working out. The next starred no one but the city of New York and my feelings of loneliness while eternally walking through crowded Manhattan streets. So, I woke up again and instead wrote some e-mails. Writing is always arduous and I’ve got this notion my coterie is also tiring but from my inconsistency.

Nothing to be done but resume skimming whatever I fell asleep to evening before. Really? Simultaneously re-reading Carlyle and commencing on Froude? Fucking UR.

Then the earth began to tremor, harder than I had ever felt, here nestled between dozens of active volcanoes. Minutes passed, and I enjoyed the vibration upon my side through the pliant mattress. “The Earth will swallow us up.”

My language centre is scrambled, tired, and lazy. My American-English struggles against the baroque character of Latin cognates.

Vanessa rapped on my window. Her preparatory sounds had mingled with bird song and tuk-tuk motors for the last half-hour. “Scott?” I put on my blanket, out of decency, before stepping outside to say goodbye. “Keep in touch with us?” “Of course. Have fun at Chichi.” The French guy was waiting at the gate to our garden and home. I waved to them both before turning and returning to my room and bed.

To his groggy disbelief, I rang Sam a few minutes after eight for The Plan. It’s still on. We leave, this morning, for the city.

If I’m going to ride my motorcycle on the dirty Central-American Highway, then I want to be clean again. A few minutes into my shower, I heard Sam talking with one of the kids in my house. I finish bathing and we finished packing.

A guitar, two hammocks, and a sleeping bag were left behind. My compatriot awkwardly humming Eye of the Tiger. Parting hugs and a parting gift. Expressions of fond sentiment and wishes of luck.

Goodbye family Gonzales, and goodbye San Pedro.

We rode off into the mountains.

Tags: spewing
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