We stand in the grass beside an iron fence as I light a cigarette. I blow smoke between the prison-like bars to avoid hitting a bicyclist in the face. I’m not always an ass. Adam and I talk about accidents. About how life has this tendency to suddenly and inexplicably hit you with an inordinately large pile of steaming hot shit. Out of nowhwere. Right in the damned face. And you have no choice but to stand there and pretend you’re not wearing shit. We talk about other stuff too. But mostly I tell him what happened to us.
Manuel sits on my suitcase. It’s a vintage 1978 American Tourister with western braiding that I bought at the thrift store on my way over to visit him, and I am not certain it’s strong enough to support him. We keep talking, but I start checking over my shoulder. Manny’s going to crush my fucking suitcase. I’m certain of it.
Adam quotes Chomsky through a nicotine haze.
No comments:
Post a Comment