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You are there.

Even though I can’t see you anymore, you are there.

So, I keep my eyes shut. And keep you close.

We’re staring up at the stars. You say that you are bored. I say that it’s okay to be bored. And that the stars probably feel the same way about us.

A punch in my shoulder then you lean into me.

Light flickers on and off and on and off. A steady pattern. Left to right, left to right.

Not silence, but something like silence follows the lights.

A vacuum from a closing door followed by the air shift- ssssssssshp and full stop.

It sounds like a chase happening. Or sentence being cut off mid breath.

Or did the sound come first, a roaring, like crowds screaming at a baseball game.

A wave, then it passes.

I remember baseball. And the Skydome. And I remember thinking that this is the best, this is the best way to spend a day.

The breeze lifts the hair on the right side of my head.

You, me, a beach towel. And that argumentative seagull hovering nearby.

My dad told that joke about a dead seagull on the beach. A son asks about the bird. The Dad tells him the bird died and went to heaven. Kid comments, did God throw it back down here?

You don’t see a lot of dead seagulls. Maybe drowning is more common.

I smell flowers and bread and water.

Water? How could that be? And metal grating on metal? Strange.

There’s never enough time in the day. Seems like.

Seems like … we are about to leave. My keys in my pocket, you checking your hair. Where are we going?

Above are clouds; below is my bench. Around me people shift and talk and dammit some kid keeps screaming over there … so I focus on the breeze.

Sitting here reminds me of something.

‘Mike!?’