Caught You Wishing You Were Here
The song ends, I close the menu, but I don't leave, for I detect the unmistakable guitar riff, followed by the lyrics...
Into the distance, a ribbon of black
Stretched to the point of no turning back
A flight of fancy on a windswept field
Standing alone my senses reeled
A fatal attraction holding me fast, how
Can I escape this irresistible grasp?
Learning to Fly. I sit down, leaving a seat open for a bronze skinned, red-eyed companion who may just show up. Absorbing pizza and a comforting flow of Pink Floyd, I ponder the previous night:
The last of the Spanish dames had just retired to her quarters, the rest of us carrying on our conversations heavy in feeling but low in real meaning. A hookah was the center point of our circle, the fluidity of the discussion lubricated by beer and rum.
The barman sat with a short, stubby branch in his hand, training his rhino beetle for its next vicious battle. It had been victorious that day, and shagged the female trophy over the carcass of his dead opponent. I listen and watch in minor amusement, neither over- nor underwhelmed.
I zone back in to The Musician sharing his uneducated mother's worldly wisdom, "You know what shit looks like, so don't put your finger in it."
He doesn't dabble in politics. I continue sipping the rum the aged man had bought for the young girl...