|
||||
beyond him now, through the front gate, skipping down the steps, wailing You killed him you killed him you killed him as searchlights burn the sky above like seizures. The warrior looks at the master, who dares not move. Why? the master asks. He was just an old man … The warrior rushes through the front gate and disappears. The master hears his soft footfalls for a few moments, and then the siren overrides it, whipping itself up in a tornado of vibrating tones. The old man remains on the ground where he expired, as if he is part of the establishment, an artful reliquary that reminds of previous eras. The master staggers over to his accustomed seat, paying no heed to the overturned tea trays, the shattered cups and mosaics of blood. His  |
hookah is still there; the tip of it burns orange as he sucks in a long breath to calm himself. I'm sorry, he says out loud. I'm sorry, I should have been home tonight. The old man's gnomic smile does not leave his face, and the master apologizes again, burying his face in his hands as a single jet passes overhead, a vapor trail smeared across the clear sky. *** Cursing, the warrior pursues her, down steps that meet other variations of steps that lead in all directions. He is moving so slowly, the wound perhaps more serious than he thought, his skin ice-cold around the wound, brick walls and bewildering windows everywhere he looks, everything the same. He must use his sword to cut a path, that is the thing to do in unfamiliar  |
|||
