Grass
The summer of ’98 had passed long and hot. We’d moved in to a languid Autumn and the humidity was becoming oppressing. As we lay in each others arms, our skin sticking together at the touch, we offered up a silent prayer for a sudden, violent thunderstorm. The air needed clearing, it needed to be cleansed. I’ve always loved the Autumn, I love the colour of the leaves and the industry of the animals as they prepare for the long winter. I love how the city’s underbelly seems, for the first time in months, warm and inviting. I love the blustery wind that comes in from the east, heralding the coming of the frosts and with them the winter.

She lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and blew the smoke out in a long stream, the last curls of it playing around her lips and rising slowly past her nose. Her eyes remained half closed as she twirled her long, auburn hair between her fingers. Her breathing came slow and deep as she stretched her body over mine. Holding the cigarette to my lips and allowing me to take a breath, she said:

“What does all of this mean, anyway?”

She surprised me. She wasn’t a person who was given to asking the more existential questions of life.

“What do you mean?”
“You know. The world. Us. The general feeling of ‘there’s something missing in my life’. Progress.”
“Progress?”
“Yes. What does progress mean?”

I paused.

“Well,” I said “perhaps progress is chasing the grass.”
“What?”
“My Gran said to me once “the Grass isn’t always greener on the other side of the fence”. Well, perhaps progress is the pursuit of the greener grass. It’s just when we get there, there’s always another meadow further away that looks more lush and pleasant.”
“Very poetic.”

She smoked some more. And from then on she was quiet. We slept that night, both of us visited by fitful dreams of meadows and industry. The morning came, the sun hanging low in the sky, and we awoke.

I took her to the train station. She was leaving. I was unable to tell her at that point that I would miss her, and I also knew (in my heart of hearts) that I would never see her again.

“I’ve been thinking about progress.” Said I.
“Oh yes?”
“Yeah. To quote Rachman: “When someone employs a vast Wagnerian machine the size of a continent, just to turn you in to soap, it’s hard to take entirely seriously the idea of progress”. Perhaps all the progress we can make is born of the lessons of the past?”

She looked at me for what felt like forever.

“You know,” she said “I think you think too much. Your Gran had it right all along. The grass isn’t always greener on the other side of the fence.”

She kissed me on the mouth, the sudden rush of energy as our lips touched sending the images of that long summer shooting through my mind. As she pulled away, her hands lingered on my face as she stared in to my eyes. And, all too soon, she turned and she left.

I never did find out if the grass was any greener on her side of the fence.
( Devil_In_Tights the *real* DiT!, Wed 25 Jun 2008, 16:49, 17 replies)

Fuck, now I'm depressed.
I have a raging need to write, and I'm at work.

DAMMIT!
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Wed 25 Jun 2008, 16:52, closed)

Eloquent as always, Mr Tights
have a clicky.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Wed 25 Jun 2008, 16:54, closed)

"you think too much"
If I had a quid for very time I heard that I'd be about 256 quid richer.

Nicely put.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Wed 25 Jun 2008, 16:56, closed)

I'm inclined to agree
'Think too much'? That's a bad thing, is it? As opposed to letting the world fly vacuously over my head because Big Brother's on?

Hmmph. Think too much, indeed! That's almost as bad as being told you're too nice...
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Wed 25 Jun 2008, 17:00, closed)

Actually Davros
I've been meaning to talk to you about that.....
(Bazongaloid, Wed 25 Jun 2008, 17:06, closed)

*click*
for the poignant poeticism.



and for making me think of Wagner's ring
( Madam Marlboro wonders if you've found her yet, Wed 25 Jun 2008, 17:10, closed)

Well, DG
if I were you...

*runs and hides behind Big Girl's Blouse*
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Wed 25 Jun 2008, 17:10, closed)

TRL...
prepare for a spanging...

*SPANG*

EDIT - Come on al, out with it...
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Wed 25 Jun 2008, 17:12, closed)

DG
what's a spang?
( Madam Marlboro wonders if you've found her yet, Wed 25 Jun 2008, 17:15, closed)

@MM
A spang is the noise of someone being hit with a frying pan.
(Bazongaloid, Wed 25 Jun 2008, 17:22, closed)

I liked this
So, have a click.
(pfer, Wed 25 Jun 2008, 17:27, closed)

Ah
Thanks al
( Madam Marlboro wonders if you've found her yet, Wed 25 Jun 2008, 17:32, closed)

@MM
Here is a SPANG!



And here is spong:



Many thanks to Mr. Sheep for providing the illustrations.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Wed 25 Jun 2008, 18:41, closed)

I'm so glad I wasn't all pissed and maudlin when I read this
Cos for sure I would have cried meself to sleep

possibly after vomiting, but that's beside the point

*click*
(happylittletulip helpless and delicious, Wed 25 Jun 2008, 19:52, closed)

nice work!
*clicks*
(keyboardman, Wed 25 Jun 2008, 20:05, closed)

Very Graham Greene
Mr DiT

*clicks*
( fuck shit up the best you never had, Wed 25 Jun 2008, 20:44, closed)

"Yay!" for poignancy
Perhaps we need more of it.

...this week, I will mostly be posting poignantly.
(Che Grimsdale Best before:, Thu 26 Jun 2008, 11:41, closed)