unforgiven prose, part 2

unforgiven prose, part 1
The Harley lit up the countryside. He scribbled in his black moldy note book two lines by the headlight: 'I hadn't even the sweaty shirt on my back. I need a new pencil'. He left out all the torturous stuff - How she was crying in laughter by the willow tree; his jeans sinking in the pond, wallet weighted with seven credit cards and a photo of his wife. She thought it funny, he took it seriously, but that made it funnier to her. So he jumped up and down on her flowery print dress, then ripped it like an old t-shirt, methodically tearing an adorable rectangular handkerchief gift selection that you can make in your very own home. She pushed back her hair and laughed silently. He just walked away. He still had a pencil and his bike left. No one was suppose to find out, but there was the car driving by slow, and the 911 transcript was released into the public record since he was the author of fifteen books and showed up a lot on afternoon talk shows in a suit and bow tie, theorizing softly with a raised eyebrow:

911: What's your emergency?

Woman: There's this man. And I'm in my car.

911: What's your trouble, ma'am?

Woman: There's a naked man standing out on Willow Road.

911: What's the problem?

Woman: For the last two hours he's been out here by a motorcycle watching the moon.

911: Two hours?

Woman: He's just standing there. Naked. Wait...I'm turning around again. I'll try to get closer.

art: Man and the Moon
--Andrew Wyeth