6/7 ain't bad

another sweet, sweet sunday.

my boyfriend, myself and six of out friends slept in then met up at the pool. layed out and swam until about 5:00pm and decided to go to dinner. fancy style. (one of them just bought new clothes, and insisted on showing them off.) awesome. we'll do tapas.

we part ways, go home and shower, get ready, and meet up at eight o'clock at the local tapas bar. we order a bottle of wine for each corner of the table and between two and four tapas per person. here's where the carnage begins.

pride
after a long day in the florida sun, each one of us truly believed that we were capable of consuming this much food and drink. we thought, "with our superhuman powers, we could eat a banquet table full of freaking food, drink bottle upon bottle of wine, deal with dessert, and even partake in espresso martinis to finish us off!"

but allow me to backtrack. i've gotten ahead of myself here.
we order.

gluttony
it wasn't a contest. there was no prize.
yet, somehow everybody heard the gun fire and -quick, shove your freaking face as fast as you possibly can.
go!
i almost wish i could describe how disgusting it is to watch eight lovely twenty-somethings filling their liqour holes like garfield. but i can't. unfortunately, i was there and apparently was too busy mowing the table down with my own face to even take a breath and look up.

envy
wow. that goat cheese alforno looks awesome. can i try some?
yeah, is that the chorizo y pollo?
god that's good, can i have another bite? dude, i should have ordered that steak thing with the chimmichurri.

and on and on and on like that until the portions (which are limited to begin with... hence, tapas) each only had one or two bites remaining.

greed
now the silence falls as arms reach over plates to wipe the rest of the sauce up with the last piece of neglected grilled onion. filet slices are hoarded. the bottle of wine is killed when no one else is watching. what a terrible display of humanity. this only occurs once during the meal and is never brought up in conversation.

sloth
after we flag the waiter down to please get this souffle off the table so we don't have to look at it anymore, thank you- we help eachother out of our chairs and waddle outside for a smoke. we lean on the wall, exhale in misery, maybe unbutton a button or two, and talk about how much we hate ourselves for doing what we did.

anger, or wrath
oh my god.
i'm in so much pain.

what the f*ck were we thinking?
i cannot believe we just did that.
dude, did see how much food was on that table??
ow ow ow
never again, my friends.
i'm so mad at myself i could throw up.
i'm so full i could throw up.

lust
after a night like that?

not a chance.

good guitar

he is much older than he looks.
commendable posture and
tailored nose hairs.
the only hint of senior citizenship
is the
gathering of sun-stained skin between
his chin and the collar of a
black tee shirt.

...

he squints and his lips
dance
almost imperceptibly
to the six strings.
he hears just half of
what he plays.
the right ear has retired,
the left is
on his way.

...

both ground and sky are
pink. not quite flower pink,
but a softer, fleshier,
mayonnaise pink. it has
snowed since dawn and is now
after dusk.
no one seems to have left
their house.
the snow, untouched on the road:

perfection.

even the
birdsandsquirrelsandracoonsanddogs
stayed in.
we'd all hate to be the one to disturb
the sleeping
white baby.

...

the guitar, too,
now sleeps. dreaming in jazz of
blue
grass.

...

he reads on the loveseat.
paperback rocking with the rythm of
his dozing. he snores
with his mouth open and
dreams of hearing
both halves.