Your life here.
Not to me.
My parents say not to give my address to strangers.
You don't have to. I'll see you again.
I don't know. Maybe next time I'm here. Maybe the next time after
that. Maybe years later. But I always come back.
She nods with her eyes. Down the promenade, her comrades are poking
their hands into the air, thumbs and index fingers extended, tongues
wagging from their mouths, some sort of insult in local parlance.
Hey! she yells after them, grabs the notebook from his hand,
and rushes off in their direction. Then, as if struck by a thought,
she turns, faces him, gives an earnest little bow, and then wheels
around, arms flapping, back to the chase.
The romance of traveling by train is deeply felt by him, but it also
haunts him. Planes are easy - the land below is reduced to a quiltwork
of earth tones, everything a similar thickness except for a particularly
tall mountain range, and even then the texture of it is but a nub
from a distance, like a puzzle piece that has been bent out of shape