It is four o'clock on a Friday afternoon, and the big question is whether or not to have a drink. Yet, I mean. If I start now, there are six hours until bed. I can do a lot of damage in that time. If I wait until six, less. But it is Friday even if I am not a working stiff after all.
I poured some tequila and sweetened lime juice into the martini shaker with a big bunch of ice. It is not a Margarita, but it is passable. It is not, however, what I want. I may pitch it and pour some wine in a moment.
The afternoon is most beautiful. The maids have come and done their worst while I sat out with my mother and shot the breeze. Now I am on the deck with the cats, the squirrels screaming their best, most itritating cat-hater chant. I may throw a rock.
Pitched the tequila. I wasn't about to get my money's worth from that.
I bought a ribeye steak to grill tonight. Asparagus. A red potato. A bottle of red wine. Somewhere someone is missing out. Afterward there will be a movie, perhaps, if I can find something worthwhile. If not, I will look for an art documentary, perhaps on Sylvette, Picasso's teenage muse.
Don't they look good together, like some romantic ideal? Well. . . they each had their talents.
I have a photo of a woman that I adore that I am sure she would not. But it sings to me some sweet inner music.
I've spent the last half hour looking for some Hammond B3 organ music that could match the feeling I get from this pic, but to no avail. Everything I found was rock and too much quick jazz, not the sweet melodic sounds that instrument makes that I was looking for. I'm surprised at the brevity of what such a search is able to mine. Selavy.
I will prepare my steak for the grill now, and the asparagus and potato, too. The wine will go better with the food and then there will be the after dinner scotch. The day is rushing westward and the cats want to be fed. It is the cycle of things. I'm O.K. Tonight will be good. I will seek contentment.