Perfect Saturday

Saturdays. Perfect Saturdays. Slushy sidewalks, car lights, gray skies. Dirty snow lining the guard rails of bridges. Parking lot lights. Espresso shots and Irish creme lattes. Coffee shops and messy hair buns and laptops and head phones. Oriental shoppes with knit scarves and rug covered journals and woven baskets. Chunky bracelets and golden necklaces. That older soft-spoken lady at the register. Walking into your favorite book store and inhaling that smell of books. Sinking down in that arm-chair. Murmurs of conversation. Words reaching your ear. Victorian rugs and ornate couches. Paint on canvases. Little kids skipping down the sidewalks. A girl that reminds you of Madonna. You want to ask her if you can draw her face, but you’re too shy. Relaxing with your favorite hoodie on. The hood over your head. Dancing with undisguised excitement. The sound of feet on wooden creaky floors. Violins. Drifting thoughts. Spending money you shouldn’t spend, but why not? The day is young. And you are young as well. Looking up writing prompts and stories fill your mind. You wish you could write the words down as easily as they come to you. Words and coffee and time with my brother. These things. They make me so happy.