echoes in sand

Sunday the 13th of November, 2005

She carves in touch on her palm, hiding the curves and sensuality from the sight of her addressee even as the sounding out of counting falls from her lips.
Five, fifteen plus a half, nineteen seventeen, how much for each banana. As if the transaction must be logged from the left hand to the right, the right to the left. Voiced all the while, her voice a wall, obscuring the effective incantation.
It is this much she says, in spite of the the other prices it could be.
It is this much and no more, on account of my left hand has audited my mental calculations by way of my right.
She is accounting for so much more, one would assume from her sleight of hand, than the mere calibration of numbers.
She is keeping a tally of the bruises on the air, as we talk, as we walk, as we cast things aside without a second glance. She picks them out, guitarist of the things we don't make manifest, and reassures her self before any money has passed over her palm, of what has amounted and what it has amounted to.
I want her to grab my hand and imprint the truth into my self, make her ramblings a path over the mountains. I don't think she can tell me anything, but what she tells herself, I want to know.