Magnolia State
Lydia wasn't sure about the coffee. Sure, he had ordered it black and black is how she'd serve it. But it seemed a little weak. A little too wan. There was a lacking of both richness and smokey presence. "Coming right up", she sighed.It was about fifteen feet from the waitress station to Donald's table. He watched her coming. He had a subtle style about him that was not so subtle. Lydia enjoyed the attention. Donald arranged his sugar packets and smiled. The ice machine gave a slow growl.
The past is made up. It consists of all of all of our mistakes intermingled with all of our little victories. And if time helps you build bridges to the past, then hard living hands you the torch that burns 'em. For a short while the flames illuminate the night sky and you can clearly see. The flames die. Your eyes dim. The clarity fades. And you sling hash in a highway diner.
Or you wander. Not in the romantic sense. No seeker of truth waving his lantern in the night, where there are no honest men. No, you wander in your heart. And you wander in your boots. And you wander away from anything that even hints of permanence. The destination is the journey and the journey has no destination. Only stops and interludes. Like a night spent on your knees, sweating and praying in the front pew of an empty church. Or the cigarette scarred carpet of a back road traveler's motel, crying , with your head bowed in the flickering light of a small bolted down Philco TV. Or in a highway diner, watching the waitress that you can tell used to be so cute. Show me a man who doesn't have his demons and I'll call you a liar.
How do you describe the gothic grandeuer of the sultry south? Nights hot and sweet as passion, and smooth as creamery butter. How can you show what it is like to be perfectly flawed? To be violent and demure? How you can love somebody to death? My south is draped in Spanish Moss and contridictions. My south is a heart that beats out loud. My south is a lover that kisses you on the mouth, hard and deep, while she binds your hands and shackles your feet. My south will never let you leave her.
Donald smiled at Lydia. Lydia returned it. The diner sign filled in for the evening's absent moon. No mention was made of the coffee.
Ramblin' Ed
That's what I'm about. Ramblin' Ed at 5:20 AM
4 comments:
Donald and Lydia. Your John Prine roots run as deep as mine. I participated in the blogger write a story in November thing two years back and two of my characters were also Donald and Lydia. It just seems natural... "like the first breath from a baby."
I started out with a Victoria, but since I knew I was doing a male/female thing here I backtracked and changed her name to Lydia so I could present him as Donald. It was as a nod to you, actually.
Murf, you already said you don't know Donald from Lydia from Sam Stone. How can I help you if you can't help yourself??
But now two Ed's, NAY!, two Ed A's, both of whom are big John Prine fans... well soome things fat just meant to be.
Er, when I wrote: soome things fat just meant to be, I of course meant:
some things fate just meant to be.
Dang!!!!
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