by Juliana Perry
Is it the wine talking or perhaps the late hour? Probably more like a combination of the two, as well as the mud wrap followed by the gluttonous feast. Sitting on the ground in your dressing room and leaning my head back onto the couch, my wine forgotten on the makeup table; those green tinted hands with strong fingers flex in my tangled hair and tug enough to extend my chubby neck. My mind wanders and I am transplanted to another place we've both been before, the theater two nights ago, critics in the wing and those damn chickens. I gaze up into your deep liquid eyes and hold tight to the memory of how you handled the crowd, protected my honor so that the show could go on. Ever so quietly you begin to sing our song close to my ear, as I feel your tongue tickle my ear, the words someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection, the lovers, the dreamers, and me.
Juliana Perry is a single mom of three, a lover of all things wine, cheese and bread, a maintainer of all things house and home, a student of business and psychology, and a professional scheduler and multitasker. She is the author of Quiet Please.