Juxtaposed Dreams in Watercolor

Mary couldn't look more heartbreaking as I ponder her through the prism of our time together.

Dressed down in soft pastels and a razor wit, her nod drew blood, a word hemorrhaging hubris; she unsheathed both with aplomb, often.

I thirsted for such nods and words from Mary, whether as benefactor or victim (she could make the latter seem like the former, laughing).

The blade is warm against my throat now as I remember the good times, crimson reflecting off silver pressing inward.

"Coffee's for closers only." Indeed. Wise words from Mamet.

"Third prize is: you're fired."

And so it goes. One of last season's second prize steak knives delivers this year's consolation eternal.

Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. But closing counts in every facet of life.

And so it goes.

Mary appears less heartbreaking to me now that I no longer have one to fracture in her honor.

The sea goes red on the linoleum as Glengarry plays to no one in rooms unoccupied. And the horizon drains from view as I sail onward, my head in the bowl and wrist in the tub. A Royal Flush. Indeed. King me.