My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie The well-dressed man stepped out of the ocean, fixed his tie, and walked, dripping, straight to the interview. He didn't stop by the available bathroom by the beach to rub himself down with paper towels. He didn't consider swinging by the nearby drugstore for a blowdryer. He simply strolled into the corporate building with the silver logo complete with red flame, full blazen, perched on its metal lip. "Hello," the man enunciated carefully, his voice somewhat garbled and warbling like he had been gargling saltwater. "I have an appointment at three PM with Mister Shaw?" The receptionist eyed him curiously and cautiously before gesturing to a clipboard. The man signed carefully, making sure not to leave wet blotches on the appointment sheet, and then slogged to the bench to sit and wait. He picked up a National Geographic magazine and flipped through it, settling on a twenty-page article regarding the future of marine life in the aft...

I have a date with an explorer who told me that when an explorer stops walking, the world stops turning. I'm planning on finding him on the top of the city hillside, where he will be recording his thoughts and dreams in a leather journal, and under the blanket of constellations, he'll tell me just not the history of each shoelace of stars, but the power behind each print that the shoes of the cosmos have left behind. And then we'll order pizza and recline on the couch at my place because that's nice, too.