Mahogany

[amanda]

On the edge of dawn, light skims off the mist below the wing. Clouds dance with the wind. Light rays appear on the horizon. This is a world known and lost.

Ursula and Tom meet with Andre. Three bumps on a log waiting for Arthur to show. Ursula heard from him last, but that was three months ago. No one has his number. That’s all right. He’s in New York. Somebody there is bound to see him, even if he is dead. That’s the great thing about New York. You can always keep your appointments.

Ursula cradles her half-filled wine glass and talks of Italian tomatoes. “They are unlike any found in the world.”, she breathes with wine colored lips.

Tom nods. Digs out the Brazilian charm that he has made into a digital watch. He laughs to himself, thinking of Douglas. Poor sap. Had it coming to him, though. No one in their right mind should go against a shaman’s curse, even if he thinks the shaman is bellowing smoke up his arse.

Speaking of bellowing smoke, damned Andre is sucking on that bloody cigar again. Everyone knows they are Cubans, most likely lifted straight from Castro’s humidor. Seems a strange accompaniment to the cheap expresso that was being served unceremoniously, in a round cardboard box with its own jacket. Tom came from Seattle, the land of ever-flowing espresso where this crazed mass addiction to sub-average drug in the first place. Yet, he could appreciate a good cup of Jamaican-grown, Italian-prepared espresso.

Guatemala Antigua swirls majestically, creating wind, fire, and mist.

Ursula muses why musicals weren’t being written anymore. Andre laughs spitefully, puffs of smoke billow out of his cavernous mouth. He knows why. He always knows why.