The infernal afternoon clock ticks and I’m three slices behind. Outside I’m poised for a furious chore, and there are the Smiths. Dropped into my world by a capricious happenstance. They are porch lounging and slightly drunk on the afternoon’s aura. Their chatter reaches me, small talk trivia time. But the clock is beating faster than my heart. Go away subliminal projection is now launched and landing in the hands of fortune. Ms. Smith is draped over the porch railing lush and loquacious. I’m finishing this job now, done or not. I shun and shed the encroachment of the idle. I ponder the reasoning of it all, their worship of such a jaded girl as the one they picked to loosen the shackles of loneliness.
