Details, in blue, peach and yellow.

     The inside of my bedroom has three colors. The north and south walls are painted peach. The east and west walls are painted a marine blue. The door is painted yellow.
Why these colors I don't know. What I do know is, I have been inside and outside of these walls for weeks now.This is the first time I've sat down and really noticed a color contrast.
How is feel right now is enlightened.
Where I am right now, is sitting near a window, listening to nothing but the sound of crickets, singing to me from the Salt Lake Valley.
I set my laptop down and move outside, taking a short break from words and snap shot memories.
Lighting a cigarette, I think of the conversation River and I had earlier today.
Ms. River, over the phone she tells me, "You think about me naked a lot, don't you?"
I take a deep inhale, letting the nicotine settle in my blood. I exhale, and remember my response being, "No."
Even the crickets call me a fucking liar.


     Ms. River sits quietly on a couch, turning pages from a paperback book she sits silently, moving her lips slightly with every word she reads. 
Where I am right now is forty feet from a sea of blue eyes, and a wave of soft maple brown hair. 
How I feel is curious. 
Since I've been here, this girl, the one with porcelain skin and a picture perfect smile, has talked to everyone here.  Everyone but me. 
I shuffle my size eleven feet forward, moving closer to her, and her amazing smile and soft pink lips. 
How I feel is anxious. 
Thirty feet.
How I feel is vulnerable. 
Ten feet. 
How I feel is inquisitive. 
As a writer, you need to be charming. You're almost expected to. It's one of those things you carry with you, along with your moleskin notepad and ballpoint pen. 
I clear my throat and think of my best opening. 
Ready 
Set
"Hi." I say. "What are you doing?" 
"Reading a book." River says "For homework." 
I move closer and take a seat next to her on the couch. 
"Do you have a minute?" I ask. "To read you something of mine?" 
Ms. River closes her book and tells me she does. 
What I read, is something out of an old, purple spiral bound notebook. What I read is something written with a black, ball point pen. What I read, is a small segment about withdrawal. 
I read from my spiral bound notebook and tell her, the first thing you do, when writing about withdrawal, is to remember all the details. 
The details of withdrawal are panic. 
Cold Sweats. 
Nausea. 
The details of withdrawal are sleepless nights, with nothing to do but write about withdrawal. 
After I finish, Ms. River tells me she has something she wants to read me. She gets up and walks to a computer, set up on a long, semi circle desk. 
I watch as she moves across the room, towards the printer and the story she wants to read to me. 
The details of Ms. River are graceful. 
Sexy
Confident. 
After only a moment, River sits back down on the couch next me and begins to read. 
Her staccato is short, and simple, but elegant. With every word she reads, she breathes a passion into the air some artists' never do. 
After she's finished, she reads something else. This time a short poem. 
Her words move, one after another with a simple beat that fits perfectly into her structure. 
I tell her I love it. 
I tell her I'm very impressed.
I tell her she should continue to write. 
I tell her she should continue to write and want to know if she wants to do a writing exercise with me. 
Ms. River looks up at a clock hanging from the wall and says, "I think I have enough time." 
The exercise I suggest is simple. We each exchange with each other, one word. Once you receive that word, you write about it. You fit that word into your story, your poem, your whatever you choose to write. You fit that word into the pocket of your heart and let it bleed on your spiral bound notebook with wide margin rule. 
So we each give and get a word.
And we write. 

I flick my cigarette into an empty street and the tell the crickets to fuck off.
On my way back  inside, I think of Ms. River. I think of the way she'd look at me while I was behind her. How I'd place the palms of my hands on her hips.
Maybe I do think about her naked.
Naked. Not naked.
Maybe I just think about River.
Inside my bedroom, I think about the things we miss.
Like walls painted in peach and marine blue. A yellow door you open but never see it's actual color.
The crickets continue to chirp behind me.
Inside the contrasted walls of my bedroom, I look at the notes from my notebook. I think of where I should go next, where I should take this story. I place my headphones over my ears, pick up my laptop, and continue to write.

Ms. River looks up, at the clock hanging from the wall. 
It reads ten minutes to eleven. 
"I have to get ready to leave." She says. "I don't want to, but I have to." 
I tell her I understand. 
Before she leaves, Ms. River tells me we should have a write off. "You bring your A game and I'll bring mine." She says. "Bring it!" Says "Come on bring it!" 
I tell her it doesn't have to be a contest. "We just give each other a word and write." I say
"Bring it!" She says. 
Ms. River looks at me with her cool, blue eyes and says, "It's literally, a literary showdown." 
I tell her that's one fuck of a tongue twister. 
"Bring it!" She says. 
Before she leaves, I hand her a short story of mine. 
Michelle Gallager
It's about a housewife, who becomes so unhappy in her marriage, she self medicates with drugs and alcohol. 
"Handle with care." I say. 
The clock hanging from the wall reads two minutes to eleven. 
River gathers her things, books and pens and a cool composer, and places them in a black, zip up backpack. 
The details of Ms. River are intelligence. 
sarcasm. 
competitive. 
The details of Ms. River are details I write down in my spiral bound, purple notebook. 
Details I never want to forget. 
"Bring it!"