Tuesday, August 31, 2010

The Cushion

Bubbles, tickling the inside of my mouth, and the inside of my conscious. The people in this party had recently collectively decided to relax and play. This is in contrast to the stiff, awkwardness that marked the beginning, before the sparkling beverages. Now, we flitted about, like buoyant things in shifting winds. With arms spread and legs kicking, the container was filled side to side. We bubbled up, climbing, taking the party vertical. 
"Hello. I mean, 'good evening.' Could you, um, help me up?" I think her name is Mary, or Jane, or Mary Jane. It had gotten to that point in the evening. She used me as a stepping stone in her poorly coordinated ascent. The alignment of her skirt became a casualty in the maneuver, and quickly wasn't covering very much. The partyers were, like Mary Jane, not bothered by the spectacle, some even appreciative, no one surprised.
A man was next. I couldn't tell you his name, despite it being the second time seeing him at one of these events. He left his wallet and keys on a ledge near me and asked, "you'll be here, right?" I thought about speaking, but that would require opening my mouth, and I didn't want to let any of the bubbles escape. Instead I shook my head 'no.' He paused, then shrugged, and left them there anyway. His ascent was even less graceful, but his pants didn't drop, so less entertaining, too.
I noticed my body hanging on its frame. I wasn't as light as air, but as malleable as water. The bubbles bouncing on the inside of me, both mouth and stomach, and everything in between, was pulverized. I felt soft all over, like a well made pillow. Enough people had taken the party to another level that there were empty sections of ground. Finding the most inviting of these, I spread out, a living cushion.
"You are not going to sleep, are you?" asked one woman. "Dude, I'm going to tea bag you," said a young man. To both I explained that I was soft and formless and was like a pillow made out of bubbles. They both agreed and piled atop and aside me.

(c) Michael Mosher 2010


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