The Taylor Airport

One summer night Gina and her husband, while their kids were sleeping, drove to the Taylor Airport. It was a single landing strip in a pasture next to a gray steel building and a few scattered hangars for the ranchers' planes. Hank cut the lights and parked behind one of the hangars, and Gina looked back to see if there were any car lights on the county road, anyone who could have seen them go in. All she saw were the blank outlines of the mountains against the night sky.

The landing strip was butter smooth, out of place compared to the dirt roads they took to get there. They lay down in the exact middle of the strip, head to head. Gina's feet pointed towards the west, Hank's to the east. Their shoulders were each other's pillows. The stars were brutally bright, almost blinding. On her back, her cheek nuzzling Hank's, the only thing in Gina's field of vision was the sky and the blinking tower light that functioned to signal planes. She had the sudden urge to take all of her clothes off.

It felt as if the earth were pulling her down and the stars were pulling her up. Floating. She touched the asphalt with her palms to anchor herself. Hank began murmuring about the days before the kids were born and reached back to cup her face in his hand.

They left the landing strip to have sex in the grass next to the car. Gina got earth and grass in her fingernails.

Gina was reminded of the time she posted an ad to Craig's list that her dog and her children were for sale and that all reasonable offers would be considered. She had stopped to post it in the middle of cleaning the downstairs bathroom, while they still lived in the city.

They saw headlights and heard a car passing in the distance. Hank helped her put her shirt back on and she leaned into his hug as they pressed themselves against the building and giggled. The car passed and they returned to their position on the landing strip, feeling the pull of the stars until they were ready to return home.

Dry Spell

Angry cleaning can
clear my head, stop the feeling
that I should stab you.

Angry writing brings
back my characteristic
poise. There's a bright side.

When I can't get laid
I have a spotless
house, a current blog.

Senryu Times Three: No French Toast for Thee

yes, dreams do matter

you put your hand on her hip

and stroked her blonde hair

her french toast smelled sweet

sick the way you whispered sex

and slurped the syrup

bad news, you Old Man

I beat up bedtime betty

no more french toast dreams

Better Than Sex

I'm a fan of drama, of finding the next high, of filling the empty void with excitement. Slow, steady contentment makes me cranky. I've been known to pick a fight just to feel the adrenaline. Since I'm content with my life, a state that holds no tension or drama, I will often use sex to fill the void. The problem is I'm not getting any lately, and I really have no grounds to pick a fight, and no fights mean no make-up sex. But I am grateful for some lovely squishy things that tide me over. Four things that are BETTER THAN SEX:

1. Philly Cheesesteaks from Off Broadway Cafe. Warm, melted cheese, sauteed peppers and juicy steak enveloped by wheat bread to add nutritional content. Orgasmic.

2. Driving to work at 6:00 AM in my Japanese car listening to Sugarland and Bon Jovi.

3. Writing. Disappearing into my head to the exclusion of all other thoughts.

4. Reading Alice Munro's short story Nettles and circling sentences I love and being humbled by one of the truly great writers of our time.

Of course, when I get some action again for the first time in months I'll wonder why I thought these other things even came close.