The Meadow 125 scrubbing out stars. We know, don’t we, that beyond the sand is a riot of starlight. Down the street, a bar spills noise—the sly jubilee of escape artists who worked this dodge a long time. I don’t drink these days, don’t talk much. I’m regarded as quiet and closed. I got exactly what I came for. The usherette leaves, hugging a bag of take-out. Tries to look like it’s just something she holds, but her grip’s too strong. My eyesight’s not what it was—softens by night. Head down, shoulders hunched, she’s a uniform taking awkward steps— like a car just moves and has no interest in moving. Get in her way—surprise and annoyance flash in her face. The bag hugged tighter. “Hey.” Try sounding friendly. “On a break, huh?” “Going back.” She looks past me. “No crowd when I left.” She narrows her eyes. I wonder how damaged they got. “I have transactions.” Let her by or I’ll look clumsy. Start back with her, trying to figure how to lock step with that joltingly routine stride. The movie house lights glow around the next block. “Guess you need to freshen, huh? Makes water go further.” Chronic silence between us—just the low clatter of processes we rely on. Try dredging back all I’ve offered in these circumstances, lines I’ve been given, chances to shine before the next scene. “What time you finish?” The bag comes a notch tighter into her chest. She walks by the picture house to the far corner. Go with her: guess I could say it’s my route. Through the bag she pinches the bottle, tests its shape, angry like a warm fistful of sand. “Can I do something for you? I said: there’s an error.” She shakes, straightens up. “You have water at home? Hot water?” “No.” “Me not. All water’s cold.” She squeezes the bag, the bottle
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