|
|||||
Write what? Your life here. Boring. Not to me. My parents say not to give my address to strangers. You don't have to. I'll see you again. When? 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 when  |
||||
