Dylan Gosland
“Whelp, there’s another split,” Bill said, “time for a poem.”
Jenny had informed him two point five hours ago that between all the yoga classes, clinic hours and shopping trips, there simply wasn’t any time left for him. Bill had apologized for the inconvenience and attempted to halt his troublesome shaking.
It was all according to procedure and the Emotional Order of Operations. Bill knew that for the next one to four days, the painted overcast would be suddenly symbolic, in lieu of mere precipitation.
His well-worn dog-eared copy of The Human Experience Handbook informed him that for the next three to six weeks, he would establish far-fetched and tenuous connections with everyday objects and occurrences to memories of his formerly betrothed.
Page 139 in particular had a very useful tidbit on somber songs, their newfound relevance, and made specific warning about Pearl Jam and their catalog. Bill would have to double-check his CD collection when he got back to the apartment.
The sprawling grey cloud cover accessorized itself nicely with the concrete pillars, balconies, sidewalk tiles and Bill’s empty new world. Bill, the tip of his nose lodged in his wrinkled tome, dodged light posts, stray pets, and other worried pedestrians by mere centimeters. His body walked the London street, but his mind was pillaging the index for the section on that hole in his being that wouldn’t fill itself. Bill was almost through the H’s and still nothing.
“Maybe it’s in the picture credits.” he said.
He flipped through pouting kittens and missed metaphors but once again his search was fruitless.
Bill appreciated the wallet photo-sized sleeves made available to personalize his book copy. Twenty minutes prior he had inserted his picture of Jenny at the Baker Street underground. It was one of those transitional shots with her mouth open and her right eye half closed, the embryo of a smile still developing. It was perfect.
The slots for himself were already filled with small reflective surfaces, allowing him to frown at his own leisure.
In his search for answers, Bill stepped on 14 toes, two cat tails, a dropped club sandwich, and a missed curb.
It appeared that the index was also missing proper reference to the memories of their time together, instead allowing space for the proper nouns, adjectives, adverbs and numbers to be penned onto the paper itself.
Bill sighed and turned The Human Experience Handbook over in his hand, glancing down the broken spine.
“Looks like it’s missing a few pages then.”
He made a three-point bank-shot with the rim of the public dustbin. The book tumbled down the rusted cylinder, into the dark crevices of his mind, and Bill Houseman walked away.
© 2013 Rind Literary Magazine. All Works © Respective Authors.
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