First Impressions: by Rebecca Dawn Bowslaugh (snow like ashes TXT) 📕

First Impressions: Ode to the Blind Date


Inspired by Fictional Love

He straightens his hat,

then places his whiskey on the piano.

“My first love was a watermelon,

literally.”

I assume he confuses figuratively

and that she had a hard exterior.

But then he pulls out the yellowed photograph

and there it is: green and red

cut and shaped like a flowering rose.

His hands gesture upwards,

and only now do I notice that his eye is infected.

He continues his confession

on the way to the refrigerator.

“I eat far too much mayo.”

He pours himself another drink,

something involving pineapples.

This gives me a chance

to examine his first love.

He is sitting on a folding lawn chair,

reclined poolside,

cradling the watermelon

with his eyes half closed.

I focus in and notice his bent fingers

appear to be stroking the ripe fruit suggestively.

“Why a watermelon?”

I turn and ask out of necessity,

but he is clearly talking to a banana.

As he starts quietly singing

the theme song from The Muppet Show

I turn away again, unable to concentrate.

My eyes fall upon a gossip magazine.

“Oh,” he says absentmindedly,

glancing away momentarily from his fruit serenade.

“I carry that on my walk to the office bathroom.”

I wonder if he reads it

when his walk is finished.

But don’t ask.

His impression of Dracula is far too distracting,

and I’m curious about where he’s lost his pants.

I place the yellowed watermelon on top of the gossip.

I fear his crying will upset the doorman.

“I frighten first graders,” he announces

as he slips down onto the far end of the couch.

“But only when they blackmail me.”

He looks at me and nods his head

as if to say, “Of course.”

There are Hawaiian shirts all over the floor,

and a ridiculously oversized bowl of leftover cheerios.

I am starting to identify that smell.

There are several photographs burning gracefully

in a pot on the stove.

“What’s cooking?”

I ask so nonchalantly that the words slide past his ears.

He’s busy tearing photos of half naked women

from the wall behind his couch.

Suddenly, he leaps up, his face flush with fever and yells, 

“JUMP!”

Before I can stop him, he’s out the window,

soaring, finally free.

I step out into the crisp air

and glance down from his second floor balcony,

watching as he brushes leaves out of his hair

and I’m hooked.

Text: All Rights Reserved: Rebecca Dawn
Images: All photos: Rebecca Dawn
Publication Date: 07-20-2012

All Rights Reserved