This Is Over Madrid

This is over Madrid before planes, before fruit bats. This is before the invasion of the palace, before chandeliers. This all happened before the crustacean shells piled in the kitchen steam, by a cook percussing knives on wood cutting boards, fell into the disposal bins. The plaza became the vibrant market. This is before Coca Cola came in bottles with straws that the children will swear make each sip sweeter from old aged memory. Madrid was not even real then. This happened when a crystalized particle fell through the atmosphere, raining down from frozen space and boiled past its melting point. The dormant biology littered the young Earth to replicate and breathe. This is how life spreads but first we must go to Madrid and the rest of Earth before we speak of what it means.

Ballistic Dave, fit exhibitionist of firepower and muscle rattled off verses of scripture, making his point to girls hanging at the Wet Hole bar downtown. His reasoning held tighter than a costume bra squeezing a plump brunette’s breasts between a plunging neckline. A Scottish chic at the billiards table spoke over the ass loving lyrics of hip hop fantasy songs saying, “That’s not even the point. Is it? You talk a lot but it really only matters within your books. Others say it is in the numbers and experimentation and other such bullshit. Well it really doesn’t make much sense for any of us to say, much less believe such things here. I’m sure we are all very impressed by your wit and her tits!” The Scottish chic banked the cue to sink the nine then dumped a swallow of beer in her mouth to seethe over lost love.

Valley Forge is quiet now. Sometimes when it is cold in the house, Soo complains that she would not have married had it not been the holidays. Her sweet far east voice told an army man, in a dream he had one winter, by the Schuylkill long ago, that she would wait for him beneath grey skies to talk and dream of a house, a flower bed near the garden and two children a boy and girl practicing Mandarin while the army man felt the woman’s hair and skin near the undressed nape of her neck. He had not known an Asian woman, so believed this ghostly dream a concoction of rotting things he found to smoke rather than some destiny to manifest. The army man ignored her voice and soldiered on through winter and on to Monmouth. He drank his last water from a pitcher, remembering the cold Schuylkill.

Soo got pregnant on the evening she heard Beethoven’s Ninth at the theater hall near the museum. Her teenage Lothario took her by the windows to peek at the exhibition on display. He took her by the dry water wall where a post traumatic vet sucked his last cigarette, intent on blowing his brains out for Christmas. They continued to a cheap hotel room with mirrors on the closet doors. She never married that boy and he did not know the baby. It would be another year before she married an aspiring entrepreneur with a business degree that she had met the previous fall just before the Ninth. The child called him dad for the rest of his life. He bought her an Audi with his parent’s money, to drive her baby in, to doctors, to daycare, to her in-laws to be cared for while she and he went to Italy.

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