The Protagonist

I have days tied to my ankle, they scratch the black asphalt up from under the snow. I wait for him in the car, allowing it to warm up, watching as he pushes the perfect snow off from all the windows. My throat is sore and my hands are dry so I clutch the steering wheel, put on the whole armor of jazz and turn up the volume. This car makes me want a horse instead. In fact, it makes me want to shed all layers of want, and that's something I've wanted only recently. Content, I reach for the passenger seat warmer, set it on high. He'll notice it just in time to appreciate it.

As I drive and drive through the driving snow, the thin layers- white silk on rough black skin deceptively delicate- drift and make the road look like it's crawling along with me. Of words exchanged from around then I remember only that he's glad I'm patient and have a good attitude, that he hates snow, and that I shouldn't walk like I'm sick.
 
The protagonist is at the bar tonight and comes home smelling of cigarettes not his, with a smile, asking how I'm feeling, now singing in the shower improvised lyrics that include my name.
 
The days I'm dragging clank like cans tied to the fender of a car. There are ribbons and there is confetti. It's a good sound and leaves the idolizable glories of 2009 just a residue from the bliss that is me in the present moment. Then again, I guess it's weird to have this thing tugging on my ankle like this. :)