HEART OF MY PIECE
...I speculated, wistfully glow-faced in my brown weave desk chair. My brain halves twiddled in this generation of unharnessed prurience until, just as my amorphous sentiments were beginning to take on actual visages, the phone’s ring rudely cleaved my daydreams.
HEART OF MY PIECE
by
Alan Madeleine
SEX!
...I speculated, wistfully glow-faced in my brown weave desk chair. My brain halves twiddled in this generation of unharnessed prurience until, just as my amorphous sentiments were beginning to take on actual visages, the phone’s ring rudely cleaved my daydreams. My chief editor struck a grave silhouette against the sun-oranged window. It was an assignment, alright, and already her senses were correlating phone input with my befuddled form. Grins, adieus, the conversation ended, and I was informed that I would cover Heart (figuratively, to be sure) at their Kalamazoo, Michigan date. As was later expounded in an editorial-office circular, “he (even) buys their albums.” The date was later changed to Flint, also known as The City That Alan Madeleine Can’t Get Away From.
So. In a typically journalistic display of fortitude, my girlfriend and I battled the dreaded ennui of the x-way, and successfully arrived at the Sheraton to camp butts in their lime green lounge chairs. For about three sum hours, as it turned out; apologized away later as due to crossing a time zone, rush hour traffic, and other perils of the peri: pate tic.