that Flirt

Last night, we went to Dew's apartment for a study party. We picked up a couple of pizzas and popped open our laptops, and jumped in to a celebration of solar angles and shading strategies for various latitudes. Such strenuous partying left me kind of tired, so I whipped out my dog-eared copy of The Agency of Mapping: Speculation, Critique, and Invention and read that for awhile until I realized I was reading the same paragraph over and over again, at which point I passed out. My hardcore friends kept the party going until about 2 am, when they were heavily involved with the transformation of pineapple contours and gecko eyes into rationalized  three-dimensional surfaces.

Fall, that flirt, is teasing us again. A flash of red and yellow leaves, cool air brushing past us in the square, a sudden scent in the air. We stop and say, ah, Fall is here, but she is not here, and there is only the old Indian slowly roasting us on the fire. It is still nice, because we know that sooner or later we will catch her, and Fall will be all ours for a short, exhilarating time.
At least, until she becomes that Bitch, winter.