The sun was beating down on them that day like a space-hung magnifying glass search-lighting for human ants. On dehydration’s horizon, a collective of construction workers toiled at a work site, beleaguered with dry mouths and Sahara-strong hallucinations of sparkling oasis.
Manfred was the first to experience a slack in his perseverance. “If we don’t take a break, we’re all going to melt,” he assured the crew. “Or worse,” he mumbled, stealing a glance at Anthony’s sun-beaten face and quaking knees.
“He’s right, you know,” Lenny wheezed, stabbing his shovel into the cracked soil, which a summer-long drought had turned into an uncanny semblance of over-baked chocolate chip cookies, sheet-form. “And we’re running out of water, to boot.”
The others needn’t be told more than once, and a symphony of metal clunking ground resounded through the site; brows were mopped in tandem; chests heaved in exhausting unison.
“The b-boss’s not going to be pleased when h-he sees we’re not w-working,” Anthony panicked, anxiety bringing forth the stutter of a five-year-old’s first day of school.
“I wouldn’t worry about that old prick,” Carlos laughed. “Found his body slunched over back behind the scaffolding; been dead at least six hours.” And with that, he doled out what little aqua remained in the boss’s confiscated Hello Kitty SIGG water bottle.
A few weeks ago at the flea market, Alisha alerted me to two of these wonderfully gaudy frames, knowing that I would squeal while simulataneously holding my hand palm-up, the universal sign for “Gimme money, Daddy.” Or, in my case, “Remember when I had sex with you? Pay up, Henry.” And he did, too, but not without some grumbling and heavy sighing.
Inside the frames were identical uggified prints of a floral arrangement oil painting. It screamed “1970s, holla!!” and while I love kitsch, I had my own ideas for those frames. Both were painted over that night.
“Caesura” was the first one I did, and it sold last Monday to this awesome repeat customer of mine who has an uncanny ability of sending me an email full of compliments every time I’m feeling down on my art. So while I was sad to have to send off “Caesura,” I was glad it was going to a nice home. Bye bye, “Caesura.”
Caesura. Caesura. I just like typing it and hearing my brain-voice whisper it seductively. Caesura.