One-Thousand-and-One American Nights

Night #7.

I am resting, even though it is Wednesday. I am sipping lemonade through a straw on the back porch of someone else's house, overlooking a florescent pool, bejeweled sidewalk, flickering 4x4 posts. I am taking advantage of what I like to call "makeshift timeshare."

Her memory is becoming idyllic, and is almost approaching deity. I am starting to loose imperfect details, the curve of her chin, the improper set of her shoulders, the perfect way she walked. I am starting to form a religion around her memory, working out a set of doctrines, a calendar of holy days, a litany of punishments for those who profane Her name.

The diner is my church. The alley is my sanctuary. My car is my pulpit, my prayer chapel, my confessional. My fascination with religion is over. I am fashioning a resort colony in my mind, with her as its patron saint and mermaid. She adorns the entry gates and the dinner plates. She stands on the napkins and pedestals. She is a face reflected in the hologram fountain at the front of the 30 story promenade.

Her name is She Was, and at it people cry.