I woke up today to the noise of bloody banjo and some crumby applause for who knows what. Picking myself up, I walked over to the mirror and washed away my sleep’s residue with icy water. Staring at the man in my reflection my chest sank and my eyes sagged into a scowl. My fingers traced the wrinkles along my face, that to an ant would be as grand as a canyon. I resembled a hideous slob. Joy.
Last night was one filled with doubts and voicemail messages. All aboard the bad decision train! I’m the captain and I am ready to steer off course and end up somewhere far away. Anywhere really. A festival would be a perfect stop along the way.
Looking down at my watch, I realized that it was thirty minutes past the opening of the Fall Festival in Bessie’s sunflower field. Picking up my wallet and tucking in my shirt, I left to go see if there was a half decent breakfast I could buy.
There were vendors every step you took and the smell of apple cider circulated the crowd under the autumnal foliage. In the background you could make out a vast field of goldenrod flowers swaying in the wind. A bluegrass band resignated in your ears and the world felt warm. All was okay. Angelica would have loved this. It was so different from England and me. Much friendlier and welcoming. It was the definition of true American hospitality.
Last night, I called Angelica. It has been a good while since she has left and I am finally coming to accept it as my miserable reality that she is not returning.
She was always someone who would make me come out to events like this with everyone knowing her and running up to check in on how her life was doing. She would smile and greet all with a hug and her beautiful wisdom. It’s rather sad how it is only now that I see the beauty in such things like a community gathering.
Turning to my right I noticed a little old lady with a remarkably large mole above her exceptionally bushy eyebrow. She sat there, relaxed, in a little camping chair stroking a black cat. Her fake pearl earrings shimmered in the morning sun and made her seem poised. To her left was a little stove with a giant kettle of hot apple cider.
“Howdy!” she said with a smile, “How goes it?”
“Goes it good,” I responded trying to bring out my phony southern accent.
“What can I get ya?”
“A cup of cider would be just right.”
“Sure thang! One cup of cider right up. Say, aren’t you that lawyer man who was in some big case a while back?”
“Sure am.”
“Say, what was it about again? Some death sentence thing or somethin’ rather right?”
“Precisely.”
“Well isn’t that just dandy!”
And that was when I remembered I hated community shit-shows and robotically paid for the beverage as the wind hit my back. I gave a subtle nod of the head and a phony smile as if to say, “Thank you. Fuck you. Goodbye,” and hustled back to my dreadful life.
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