Later, mid-morning. You are sitting in the Kroger lot on Tylersville as Carol does early Thanksgiving meal shopping as Mary Lou has Thanksgiving this year. On late Friday afternoon you and Carol are heading to Steve and Karen G’s home in Delaware County to see them and Doug and Nancy G. as they will be up to see his younger brother who lives in Powell, Ohio. Thursday, Friday and Saturday will be mostly friends and family.
Thursday you had a trip to the doctor’s office for throat and a bad cough. The medicine has a sick stomach after effect which is irritating more than anything else.
I have been sitting here sucking on crushed ice and a regular 7-Up. Not my usual. What bothers me more is that I had my normal for breakfast, crunchy peanut butter, raisins and honey on a slice of wheat bread, a banana and a glass of skim milk and my stomach is now upset having earlier eaten my favorite foods. Split infinitive. I used to get in trouble for that in Miss Harley’s English class. I feel rebellious today so I’ll leave this as a warning to myself on how radical I can be. Amazingly, the 7-Up seems to be helping.
Carol is planning on raking leaves this afternoon as the southwest breeze is favorable for it and you are going to mow and mulch the grass this one last time in the season.
I need to check my old grammar books when we arrive home. People are not using the comparative degree properly these days. Maybe they are teaching grammar differently today though I didn’t retire that long ago. More likely, they aren’t teaching grammar much at all. Without grammar it is difficult for me to think clearly and therein lies the problem with the momentarily rebellion in my last paragraph. I am going to sit back and relax, watching the people come and go, while thinking of those well known quotations by one of my favorite writers, George Orwell. Sometimes I feel myself like ol’ Benjamin in Animal Farm. I think it is Benjamin.
Home. You found the rules have not changed though they are open for interpretation among the educated class. Thus, the media professionals have gone with the use of ‘more clear’ rather than ‘clearer’ which is deemed informal. The chances are you are mistaken in this particular grammar skirmish.
Another reason to keep my mouth shut.
Carol has begun raking leaves. Post. – Amorella.
Sunday night and you have completed a draft of the third sexual event between Sophia and Salamon for scene three, chapter six. Post. You have two more, then we will redraft and continue for this, the beginning of the final scene in chapter six.
**
Preliminary scene 13, continued first drafting
Mattress on the floor late evening. Sophia suddenly discovered that she was more conscious of Salamon’s right hand, thumb and fingers spread across the back of her right hip than his unconsciously moving tongue stroking her snuggle warm, semi-erecting clitoris. His right hand is solid, holding. His other hand rests, comforting my outer thigh just above my bent left knee. It is like Salamon is attempting to suck away something not fully there. A straw with nothing at the other end. Does he remember the taste, feminine moisture on his nose? What is the enchantment? The born man-child comes head first, is it his plan of subterfuge, to worm his way back in the same way? I give him the two things he wants in the coming timed moment. Poetry. A metaphor. Sharing what I don’t have with what he doesn’t have. As in life, it is the thought of fully giving what you have of your most private self.
I sniff too, thinks Sophia, and I lick a taste of rush’s memory. I do remember the sharpness. Of watching a man become beside himself. Automaticity. With a few strokes and licks I can do such a thing. I can flatten a man much as a runaway oxen can. I can run him down with my lips and tongue. Yet, little is here but the memory and wish to be whole again. This is with mind alone without the vast entrances and exits of physical pressures, of colliding storms within bodies arching humanly together in little more than the air we don’t even breathe. We are what we are, sharing naked the only utilities we have to share, our five senses intermixed, as it were in cemented feelings. Salamon’s thoughts and feelings are consciously drowned in these reflexive moments. He is not even here. I am that good, I am as solid as his clasping right hand.
*** 
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