Rosaline Honeycock

As I was turning my lap top off last night, and making to leave my desk to go to sleep, the thought of seeing my friend the next day wafted into consciousness and I began to reflect on the last time he and I were together. We were at his place; I was seated on a brown leather couch — purchased from “Demir Leather”, as he so softened reminded me. It complimented the room well, blending into the established colour scheme of the sitting room’s NYC-theme. The door slid open as he entered. He emerged juggling a tray of refreshments in one hand, and a pitcher in another. As time elapsed, he would leave for the kitchen every so often to replace an empty bowl of pretzels or fetch some juice. Reminiscent, the memory made my cheeks flush with the warm, tender glow of nostalgia.

Careful not to fall, I reached over for my notebook at the far end of the desk and drew it near. I lifted the cover and held a pen before the expectant page. ‘He bustles about in socks and an apron. Wearing nothing but socks and an apron.’ I scribbled the line in my notebook, bemused with the imagery, but more so, the style of writing. The ebb and flow of prose. It harked back to the off-cuff banter in Catch 22 — the lilting cadence of each verse, the wry humor interspersed between non sequiturs and circular dialogue. Pleased, I hit the mattress, and punched open a novel before sleep gave the final one-two K.O.: once at eleven that night, and again at five the morning after. I woke in a daze later on, my mind glazed from fretful bouts of disturbed sleep, my limbs eager to burn with the effort of walking again after weeks of resting indoors.

(via moonhymns)