Revision
by Jason Gallagher
Seven years ago things were different. At least to Maria. He had wrapped his existence up in her and all she wanted to do was fly. She wanted nothing to do with his Euclidian geometric musings, his symbolism, and his love of “nature’s own mysteruim.” Those were his words, not hers. She had lost her words. For all his talk of essence and truth she had lost her agency. When she was set adrift of her own will she felt like dandelion pollen, mushroom spores or some other mold caught listlessly in the wind. Caught in a wind but in reality not actually moving. This was his doing. It had only been three, four dates if you counted the day trip to Santa Monica pier, yet her answering machine light would still blink three times weekly. She remembered the gulls cawing at the sewage in the Venice canals as they walked toward the pier. She dare not touch his hand. He had been talking pop philosophy with a soothsayer near one the granite seahorses. Even the surfers couldn’t understand a word. The fortuneteller would roll her eyes, sigh, and murmur something about him being a Gemini. It was the look of the surfers that solidified their failure.
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