Carly have a hand in this, too?

[Following Panda Woman's lead, I jumped in the cafe pool: write for seven minutes, no stopping: the prompt is Anticipate. Imperfection is assumed.]

In the noodling afterglow, spoons derive pleasure that forks do not - cannot, in point of fact. Their pointed remarks gain nothing, even in the sassy fantasies of their sporky brethren, and let me get off this derelict metaphor muy pronto. See if you can't guess my next stop: I surely can't, just as I couldn't imagine what lay across the river and through the rainy woods of St. Anton that glacial August evening some, what now?, 26 years ago. Norwegian wood, you might have thought, but the blonde wood was challenging. Comfortable disarray, this five years after a proposal led as far away from intent and reliance could possibly veer. Byron and Shelley and Mary never had it so good, warming across the warm lake in warm sun with warm wine, warming to this woman from home, but not the woman I was going home to. Somewhere I remember Hemingway getting caught up in this delicious mess, must have been my own - and entirely different - farewell to arms: her arms. They were never met, if only dreamed. There were, of course, arms to meet back in the hills, the green hills, and they were, but the dreaming was hasty, and the arms -