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Copyright: Fred Robel, and Fritz365 2010-2017. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog's author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Fred Robel and Fritz365 with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Thursday, March 21, 2013

An Almost Perfect Night

Two little green dome tents
A small crackling fire
The lake standing still beneath six inches of ice
And us sitting on some stacked flat rocks
Our feet a little too close to the fire
The rubber of our boots beginning to think about melting

My hand in hers
Both of us staring up at the expanse of stars above
A drunken excess of far away stellar furnaces
Shining in our eyes

The silence is broken occasionally by the lake
Making queer ice cracking sounds
A sharp crack
Followed by an echo
Sounding like a bow saw flexed by mischievous children
Out in grandfathers barn giggling at their own inventiveness

I'm filled with awe at the natural wonder bearing down on me
I look over at her
Her face illuminated by the flames
So beautiful to my eyes

She catches me looking and smiles
Leaning to me
Kissing my cheek

I turn slightly to face her
And putting a hand to her face softly
Our lips meet
In a stroking lingering kiss

She pulls away abruptly though
Her nose wrinkled slightly
"Your hand smells like poo
Did you wash after you went?"

I was taken aback
The bathroom had been little more than a cinder block outhouse
With all the amenities you'd expect
Which consisted of a throne over a pit
And some toilet paper

"Of course not!"
I exclaimed
"I rubbed them around in the snow bank
It was the best I could do"

She got up and went to her tent
Saying she was done for the night

I sat there alone for a moment
Listening to rustling sounds emanating from her green tent
Her zipper went up a little
Making me hope she was coming out
Or inviting me in
Either if which would be great

A box of wet wipes came flying out to land at my feet

"Use them!
She barked at me

And so I sat there
Looking at her tent
Staring into the fire
Listening to the serenade of the lake
Stars shining down in their million pinprick glory

I glanced at her tent to see if she was looking

She wasn't

I sniffed my fingers carefully

They do smell like poo