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12:14 Sunday Night (Monday Morning)

I'm just a man ... standing in front of the world ... asking them to love my writing.


Driving down Indianapolis Blvd.

After Midnight.

THE MONKEES custom mix CD playing.

Little to no traffic.

There's nothing quite like it.

It clears your mind ...

One car disappears over the hill up ahead.

The one that was driving too close behind me has now slowed, turning and then fading into the background.

Businesses are closed, though a few parked cars remain here and there. Perhaps straggler employees counting up the payroll or doing last minute replenishment. Or maybe the beginnings of an overnight crew.

There's one car in the dark, deserted park. The same one that is filled with laughing kids in the Summer, either performing daredevil acts on the monkey bars and swings or playing organized soccer in the grassy field. Now filled with unmanned city construction vehicles on the cusp of some new project.

Stationed in the last parking space, between the playground equipment and the the fifth city vehicle. Visible to any passing down the single lane road. Auxiliary lights that reveal that the engine is running. Possibly a couple making conversation ... making out ... making love ... in a toasty car, on a 28 degree, bitter cold night.

Thinking about the possibilities makes my mind wander back in time to my single days. The years between a still ever present student loan and a hum drum marriage. Back when I drove pretty ladies to the lake at the end of a dinner and movie date in a desperate attempt to spend more time with them. Some of the ladies admiring the water, rather than me. Others cuddling up, kissing passionately, leading to a little "vo-dee-oh-do" ... If you know what I mean.

Another time ...

Another place ...

Back before older kids moving out and graduating from high school and younger ones acting up at Elementary school.

Back before the wife and I ended up using separate bedrooms. Separate but equal with the one that promised to love you for better or for worse, but abandoned the marriage bed due to your alleged snoring. Ignoring hurt feelings and suspicious eyes of visitors wondering, "Who's room is that?".

Then I think of one of my favorite authors -- ROBERT B. PARKER -- the real life Spenser: For Hire. How he and his wife shared a house for years. With her in an upstairs apartment and him downstairs. And the countless novels that flowed from his pen with that living arrangement. And I smile.

I smile, thinking about how my distractions are now few and far between. How I have the ability to free write any time of the day without waking her. Writing about driving down Indianapolis Blvd after midnight, listening to The Monkees.

© 2022 LaZeric Freeman

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