special to six-line scenes.

I first learned of this guy some years back, when discussing literary heroes with some great friends of mine. And while Lucky Manuel (follow him!) is not yet my literary hero (maybe one day), he is a general all-around amazing figure-- a legend, if you will. An icon.

Unless you're one of his "special friends," you've probably never seen him without his white panama hat and matching white overcoat. And despite this seemingly ridiculous costume, he's an impressive romantic force; a sort of Ricardo Montalban-meets-James Bond who, when last we spoke, told me that over the previous weekend he'd "entertained more hot tail than a Mexican alleyway." Somehow this was charming. For serious.

Now that I think of it, I'm not even sure what Lucky does for a living-- he's a photographer or a musician or marketer or international door-to-door salesman-- but in any case, he's a smooth, smart, awesome dude who happens to be incredibly attractive despite the unconventional face (if I had a picture I'd post it). Who knew? The downside is that he doesn't come around too often. But, perpetually lovelorn, lovestruck or lovelusting, in fact a self-proclaimed "victim of love," Lucky has sent in six lines direct from his gushing, pumping, mad-beating heart. He promises many more.

by the time you walked away your smell had already faded from my hands
by Lucky Manuel

(A and B sit on a stoop)

A
I mean I'm so grateful for the time we spent together.

B
Hey-- that's my line.

A
But I mean it.

B
Me, too.

(silent sighs. A drunk couple stumbles to a car in front of them. Their presence is grating but still, a welcome respite from the current moment.)

(A reaches for B's hand. Fingers slip into fingers, into the memory of melting hearts and thoughts, days and the smells of days, of summer and sweat and the rhythmic sound of fans, the whiteness of morning sunlight, latticework and almost-jumps and loud laughs of salvation and stinging mint. They are meteors, or versions of meteors, or maybe just bits of the same rock from some long-ago explosion, quietly hurtling, at a speed just under that of light)

B
Should there be more?

A
(still, and hurtling. A moment)
No. No, I don't think so. I think that's it.

(the man-half of the drunk couple hangs his head out the door and vomits. The air is humid. On the stoop, their knees touch, denim on denim. Hands withdraw; smiles reach out. They mock satisfaction, begging the arrival of the real thing.)

(Behind their eyes, something seals. They stand.)

*