Groping for Time in a Dusty Mirror
“Forget about it,” he said.
So she did. For twenty years. Twenty dimmed down, dead-done years.
“Wow,” she said.
When he left it wasn’t as if the lightning had struck. It wasn’t as if the world had up-stood–stun shaken. It wasn’t the paradised epiphany glowing up the brain canals to pierce the soul for seeping.
It was just the second he was here and the second he was gone. The invisible birth of a moment between two perceivable points in time (now…now–now now!). No one ever sees a life change. Instances, whether fated or spurious, are not conditioned or nourished by us to become. They exist and they are as if they always were: Poof–here is a flu germ land; here is a lady’s will.
And William, taker of his own advice, forgot it too. One was spite and the other was spite. One was lady’s shoes and the grinning possibility of a jock jim’s leathered and horny touch.
Forget about it.
The other was a night with dudes, nights where cigarette smoke calls you baby if no one else will, the screw-it gone wilds, the writing on and off the walls that say things cute and catchy, provocative–winningly inspirational penises and breasts–days of learning to be a French harpist with a hairline bend for the chronic insane.
Jock Jim and French Harp are two separate paths along the same disheartened vein. They exist in preconception and flower away from the other, never touching and ever out of shouting distance. They both found each other when the one was exactly where the other is. Professional and making it–brash and flashed, burdened and gathered. Because time thin ran out–the light switch turned down, yellowed.
They stared at each other in a subway station and didn’t know what to do.