Is it me or do churches look extra ominous in the dark? I will keep an eye on the staggering man with the knife. Don’t answer. You can go on telling me about your parents. You haven’t noticed him or the knife and that is okay. I will tell you all about them when the night needs new polish. Just a couple half hours and I’ll feel like listening to the echo of our feet, hurrying along the cobbled street to our next stop, the nth bar or a friend’s mezzanine.
Someone’s after him now, stranger feet echo in our place. You keep talking, and yes, of course I remember when… The knife’s now hidden in a stone planter. The man’s steps join the others in an exquisite canon. Then nothing.
Not too long ago, I also ran away from work, then took a train. I sat on this very bench with someone who was so unlike everybody else but so much like you. Although I wasn’t so innocent and it wasn’t the same.
My dream home on the top floor has a garden terrace on the roof. It has vines and roses and braids of little plumeria flowers. Majolica jars and some honest bugs, just annoying enough for me to complain. There is also a planter made out of stone where a drunk man has hidden a knife.
I pour lemonade over ice and keep an eye on him, while I hear about your parents, your cousins, your imaginary goldfish, your childhood best friend, and you talk about why we didn’t stay out a little longer that night.