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10 February 2006

Evening For Bianca

(© 2004, Scott A. Josephson. All rights reserved.)

Promise.

Carried across a soundless, mediocre caressed Friday evening rushes a young man hurried -- brown-tinted glasses slightly stained, loose fitting slacks a light blue denim, caramel overcoat slung over left arm, then right arm, then flailing upwards, destined toward near reaches of the high 40s, where stood a rainbow sherbet scooped fantasy itself wrought in the infinitely colored passions of the once impossible -- an image of myself, able-bodied pedestrian striding streetcorners at galloped cavalier pace, brilliant boyish eyes ashimmer, young ever still in frightening shine -- remnants of these 24 years aching, wrinklelessness revolving over the terrible melting that is youth waxing.

There awaited, slumped she, in beautiful languish -- form fitting top matching jet black hair, skirt aflow -- captured not in landscaped Italia, skyscraped metropolita -- not Milano nor Firenze, Napoli, even Roma Almighty. She the 1940s, the 1990s, black and white photographs spilled across shoeboxed coffeetables, photocopied and plastered so perfectly artistic as wrapping paper for the weekend maternal holiday -- statue incomparable at the foot of Mediterranean trafficked waves, posed in gorgeous, delicate repose. All my every trip to Europe in every minute passing becomes meaningless.

At almost 25, seated across and inches away, but reaching still across canyons untenable, did we conquest six years wrought through the plights of sadness and Smiths CDs and something none may ever call affectation, but rather utterless affection.

My skin is scratching still for screaming release.

One eat-em, two eat-ems, three eat-ems. This ravished young man did for once consume his poet-philosopher visage for a truth in happiness found in invoking, evocative eyes the opposite sex did possess, Frida Kahlo eavesdropping the evening entire.

Stiff neighbors obnoxious; they detract nothing. Earthquake, tropical storm, apocalypse itself could rip through existence -- and in difference I would remain, never not -- no disaster distraction could expunge smiles earnest, my tender, teenage-cultivated, nurtured kindness -- abdomen butterfly farm aflitter.

Early May, just before a quarter of a century; Ninth Avenue ablaze in flippant sips of Cachaca, limeless bottle emblazoned, Pitu carved across its label. A Friday evening in my life, but a Friday all the different -- not alone, sunken in orange fabric upholstery of university-issued chair, leaves crisp and arresting trees stretching and Ridgewood laundry cell-block, blocking a true view of the rest of campus -- stereo blasting through oversized headphones, tears never quite washing clean lurking Boston, sexless existence of celibacy unyielding tragic, common room abandoned for elsewhere engagements, invitation denied -- bartered for a Friday evening I now own.

Port Authority escalators again, signaling farewell -- Hoboken queue devoid, bus awaiting as did she, 49th and 9th, lingering still for a boy whose brain an inconstant standstill -- twirling, yearning to purchase NJ Transit ticket, occupy adjacent seat, depart vehicle in this dreamscape I have never known, sweet, forgiving Hoboken. Never had so luscious a vision, New Jersey, appealed to lips licked not for another subway ride, but to awaken -- in an ultimate occasion -- on the right side of the river.

Oh, we will share Caiprinhas and decadence and hand-holding and broad creaking boardwalks, and Italy supple on Jersey Avenues just west of east, and just east of sunrise.

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