THE HIDDEN TRACK

The following passages are dedicated to Leopold, to the vernacular, to certain evil women (you know who you are), to certain wonderful people(they know who they are), to soft afternoons and quiet Sunday evenings, to Fall and seeing your breath for the first time since Spring, and to Isabelle Ya Feng ... a soul slipped by like two ships passing in the still, moonlit sea.
-- Abraham Ahmed, the Surfing Beatnik



Maria, the Sounds You Are...

The last thing I heard was Maria calling that the popcorn was done. The whole house smelled like butter and corn and paper from the sack that the popcorn came in. The hum from the microwave ceased.

I listened to her shake the bag up and down while the last remaining kernels cooked off in individual pops. Then she tore open the top of the bag and cursed to herself when the steam surprised her face. I heard the cupboard door; a bowl clinked another bowl then tapped against the countertop. The popcorn slid lightly from the oily sack into the bowl as the smell of the butter intensified in the room. She ran around the kitchen in hurried steps.

A DVD case lay on the table open and empty.
A television sat quiet with blue screen and pause symbol displayed.
An afghan sat pushed back to the side of the couch allowing the warms spot where she had rested to cool.

I listened to her collect ice from the ice maker and pour in juice or possibly a soda or more likely plain tap water.

She turned the corner into the opening the living room and smiled at me.

She held two glasses and the bowl of popcorn.

Maria floated towards me, shining as everything I ever wanted.

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