…I work at pushing The Millennial on, like trying to roll a giant ball I made myself of clagged sand and water, or wet clay, that keeps cracking and threatening to split against the tiniest rootknot on the ground.
In an effort to mark some progress, I’m posting an extract of the current opening, placed here as a time capsule for future-me.:
They were familiar with one another, old friends. She, in a broad hat, one of those dresses only worn by those absolutely comfortable with their physical selves (a man’s rust-tinted belt, double-knotted, low on her hips, visible tailing from under the table), touching him. Lightly, lightest – while he moved the cup smoothly to his mouth and drank and licked chocolate powder and foam from the corner of his lip with instant discretion. Grey suit. Hair at his temples brushed back. And weren’t they now laughing, of course. Old joke; she’d said about his rescue dog, ribs, kick-haunted eyes, and now plump and a darling, but – a subtext. She’d come over later to pet its gleaming greyhound fur. Her nails were not bitten, nor had ever touched land dirt, bin bag, or greasy railing. He leaning back, broad, bold, saying about that trip they’d taken together. Or would take? Sketch book, liquid hatchets from Aida’s pen. The man coughed – Aida glancing away, slipping the book out of sight – but he hadn’t noticed. Aida at the counter by herself, had felt slight, ordering her chai, and picking at the air-holes on the lid. Then walking, alone, out of the café, a blur crossing the intersection, hopelessly in love again with the way others could manage to live.