cut short.

me + macbook + panera. one of very few (two, maybe?) times we three have come together since my son was born. and i'm a recidivist on this reunion day, writing when i should be working. it feels good ... both to be writing and to have work. it's just a small project for a new client, but, as usual when i get even a tiny boost, my hopes are high for the future. btw, the future is closer than i or you think. in fact, this sentence right here is in the future of the sentence right before it. 

a big guy just sauntered through the door, his neat dreadlocks dangling in near-concentric circles, each lock the color and size of a clove cigarette. i wish they were uneven, longer, and had that one, lone dreadlock bending precariously forward as if it might fall into the abyss over the edge of his forehead. but his is the hair of a careful man. careful, yes, even in his anti-establishment hairdo. it's possible, you know. it's like people who get tattoos in places only the shower will reveal. they're braver than some but more careful than others. everything happens in degrees.

it's 47 degrees in clarksburg, under a sky that can't decide if it's happy or sad, depending on which window i look from. i wish it were colder and blustery and the sky was spitting miniature snowballs. i know, i know; it's too early for that. or there's more time for that to come. or whatever. who cares. i like my weather like i like my dreadlocks: reckless.

unfortunately, today's coffee-shop musings will be like big guy's clove-locks: cut short. mamma has to abide by the clock and get her work done so she can once again be a writing writer. one day, when the days of how in the world can i make it happen? have passed, my boy will be proud of his mom. i'll be proud of me, too.