yummy

my new passion is Lays. salt and vinegar. the green ones. yummy.

going at midnight for the third time to the supermarket just to pick them up. and getting noodles, pancake mix, shower scrub and new shower gel in the process. yummy.

of standing at the cashier insisting on paying myself, having a six year old little girl looking at me in total wonderment, amazed at my credit card, car keys and ability to buy groceries at midnight all alone. with an expression of awe, and an almost disbelief that she could ever achieve such great heights one day too.

back rubs are yummy too.
snuggling under covers, warmth against cold AC air. jean clad legs intermingling, naked arms intertwining to shut out the artificial cold. yummy.

stepping outside into ever present restless wind, whipping hair into eyes as ears adjust to the sound of the sea.

feeling sand sinking ankle deep.

sitting in a board room, kneeling incongruously on the alien floor only ever stepped on before, leaning into the silent stand, bend, stand, kneel of prayer. sitting for a stolen ten minutes of a crushing brutal rapacious day. watching out of floor to ceiling windows from the top floor while squatting in reflection, looking at balcony plants being torn by the wind outside. hypnotized by the serenity of the wharf as a seagull arcs over a boat buffeted at its standstill. wrapped on a ray of rare pale sunlight in utter silence, eternity poised in the restless wind.

i had a dream. in a giant cafeteria looking out onto a huge green valley, complete with rainforest blanketing the mountain sides and a waterfall and snaking river off into the far distance.

of being in heaven before life started. of sitting on a long table with all of humanity on it. opera in the background. starting and stopping like musical chairs. the objective being to hold hands in the split seconds of silence, and hold onto two partners for the rest of the song, for the rest of life. of watching mesmerized the ocean of criss crossing hands. of reaching forward in the next silent gap, and latching both hands onto him.
of the archangel himself pausing at the incongruity. at the ingeniousness of humanity. how can someone change the rules and just hold onto one person? he’s more conventional, holding onto two. the music restarts, too late to change, all eggs in one basket.
the opera reaches its crescendo, the people stir, awaiting the next change. she waits poised, but notices he isn’t looking at her. he’s struggling, but his attention is waning, eaten by the other hand he’s holding. he’s going to leave her. she who broke convention never broken by humanity before, broke it for him. she weeps, and he weeps for her.

when the music changes, he changes hands.

she wakes.