eyeball

A few things occuring simultaneously on a cold, blue, June afternoon:

1. The little boy visiting next door runs backwards and forwards screaming 'EYEBALL' at the top of his lungs, then spasmodically collapses on the dirt in a fit, giggling to no one but himself.

2. Someone down the street plays violin, sadly, amorously. It drifts through my window and into my head and reminds me of my grandfather, sitting in his lounge room, eyes closed, stereo on. Debussy. I try to imagine the mysterious player, connected by the chin and by the fingers to the sound. Ah, love. They are connected by heart-strings to the sound.

3. In the kitchen my father roasts vegetables. He pours his eggplant heart into the baking tray, afloat in a sea of shiraz, balsamic vinegar and olive oil. While he sheds onion tears, his zucchini fingers fall in slices, knife deftly separating button mushroom toes from capsicum feet.

4. My fingers are numb from the cold.

5. The taste of you lingers softly on my tongue.