The bag hung an inch from then solid ground. Could it still be considered dirty? Impure or fouled? It had touched other grounds, yes. None of which were sacred, because nothing was nor had been for a long time now.
"Just put down the bag," she said.
"Nah, I'm good," he responded. As he usually would, unless he didn't; in which case he would just raise both eyebrows and thin out his lips as if to say: this is how I am me.
Later, down the path that hair and skin takes, more or less stayed the same. All the world was washed clean by rain or by pipe and there it all sunk, back into that same filthy ground held together by heat and exhaustion.
In two separate lodgings, across a not-so-breadthy lake, two lovers stood facing their side of the shore-water's edge, touching their anonymous private parts -- not so fervently, but rather with quite a soft and longingly loving touch -- behind walls, but facing each other, the magnetism too distracted to feel any true pull, but certainly not pushing them further apart, and they stared forlorn at the lake. Sleeping in each of the beds next to these statues of moonlit magnificence, were two separate celestial bodies, hosts dreams of past events, some filled with joy and some with sadness, and not to be called by any fancy Greek or Roman names: these were just star people. Not Apollo nor Persephone, just star person one and star person two. Or two and four, in this story. Or three and four, depending on how it seems. Or six billion four hundred seventy-seven thousand eight hundred and two, or so on and so forth...
The as yet to be determined to be defiled bag swayed in a hovering rhythm not unlike a wrecking ball. Inside were all those things we carry. When we are going someplace. Someplace that isn't where we sleep and just for the day.
The lakeside lovers knew not to complete the act. It would be too distracting and neither of them sure that was even what it was about. Neither of them even sure the other had the sense. The natural sense is to stay and make due and proceed. So they decided to do that, separately, and forever so. And so not a stir from the bedside and not a stir in the room. Only two slivers of light in two kitchens and two bowls of cereals getting drenched by two separate streams of moonlit milk.
One thought of Seventy-six Trombones. The other thought of Bon Jovi. Both slipped out of star consciousness and fell into repetitive-action and process construction and so went the rest of their morning until the moon went away and the sun came up over the lake blinding them both with sparkling, annoying eye-wrenching golden light. One poured coffee. The other took a dump. Both houses woke up fairly quickly thereafter and took over the rest of the remaining thought-strings so as to muck-up the very slight and extremely agitated magnetics that ran above, below and through all houses everywhere.
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