he texted her
Idiot. Me. Happy
anniversary, love, my buckwheat, my Only. #106, two shy of 9 years(it
was his favorite number so he never wrote 9 out). So happy we’re together.
as he sent it he immediately heard
in his ears his daughters and son-in-law chide him Wasnt counting the months to
a relationship supposed to have gone away in your teens
Maybe they went out with yours he
replied but I think youve forgotten Im a numbers guya boring matter-of-fact
numbers guy
If Im not mistaken I texted you when
Dig went 337337 miles
he couldnt tell them how was
anxious he was for Digger to go 337733 miles the numbers turning over under his eyes on the
obsolete cammed odometer – to-day its digital shit – he didnt ownwouldnt own a
digital clock or watch and dug resetting the hands of his clocks
Spring(forward) Fall(back) at two in the morning
they had been106 delightful
loving months
she was a creative like him and was altering
her watercolourist background becoming a computer-graphics artist
her relishing art was only second
to his they were ardent devotees
prior to her no one in his life wanted
to discuss art attend exhibits let alone could knowledgably run the gamut with him
of Romanticism to Realism to Impressionism to Modernism and the scores of mingled
schools movements and collectives
she had been unexpected
they were unexpected
she was thirty years younger than
he
1521, Thursday, #106, 15 6.
17
