Satruday Scribes - July 26, 2008

Bob’s Midnight Vigil

Bob sat cross legged and uncomfortable on the pesticide-free lawn, feeling bits of soft clover brushing against his bare legs. It was midnight, and SHE was in there, somewhere. Playing the piano? No, he couldn’t hear the tinkling sounds of her beautiful fingers, making chords on the ivory keys. Was she baking cookies? Bob imagined the wonderful smell of cookies wafting through the house, welcoming visitors in. But that was a remote possibility. Who baked cookies at midnight? Bob couldn’t see enough light in the house to suggest that she was that busy in tasks of lovely feminine domestication. Bob loved the idea of HER baking cookies. But that wasn’t the reality, and Bob knew how important it was to stick with reality. Dreaming up falsehoods was the quick route to madness, and Bob fought the terror of this unreality with all his might. So what was SHE doing? Bob’s mentally skimmed through a list of possibilities: reading a romantic nineteenth-century novel? Puzzling through a difficult crossword under the light beams of a 100 watt bulb? Maybe she owned a slim laptop and hovered under its luminescent glow. Bob suddenly wished that he was own of those bright people, those intuitive types who only had to close their eyes, and give mental focus to gain knowledge. Bob had read about these types with second sight. If only..... Seconds and then hours slowly ticked by. All the houselights were now out and SHE had gone to bed. There had been no sweet glimpse of HER from outside, and there wouldn’t be tonight. He had to give up the good fight until tomorrow, when he might have better luck. Tomorrow, he’d come more prepared. Yes, he’d write a poem, and whisper it gently to her like a devoted Romeo. Bob comforted himself with this thought as he sat up and left his lonely midnight vigil. Yes. He would write a poem.