Three words. Nine words. Eighteen words.
If you pack them all up carefully along with the ceramic, remember not to leave any dust behind.
I had been sitting around an almost-circular table, drinks sweating into the wood, smoke piling up at the mouth before drifting off into the rest of the room. We hadn’t seen each other in weeks, although it felt like longer – months? Nearly a year, possibly? The laughter grew raucous; people took turns going up to the roughly-built stage to tell their jokes and their stories.
Did you hear the one about the serial killer who stabbed his victims to death? He told the judge he just wanted to make new friends. Testimonies said he would approach random people on the street with the murder weapon. “So KNIFE to meet you!”
It was funny. Or maybe it only was in the haze of liquid courage and the physicality of people I thought I had lost. Where had I been for so long? They were jabbing my ribs with their elbows; someone handed me another drink. It was my turn to go up to the darkly lit stage. Tinkling music played quietly in the background, turned down by the barkeeper who wanted to watch us have our fun. Other people lingered at the edges of the room, but this was our time, our reunion, our excitement.
I took my glass to the small stage, touched the microphone. Hello? Is anyone out there? I asked. Laughter for a response. With the light on my face, individual people turned to shapes in the dark. Movements in the periphery. I took a drink, and another. Set the glass on the smooth floor. Stood up and faced the light.
When the rush comes, you know where it’s pulling you.
Shadows glimmered just out of focus range; my mouth felt dry despite the drinks. My heels clicked as I shuffled nervously.
Once there was a girl, I started. Images of a woman, standing across a street I once knew. A bus rushing past, cutting off my view of her. She had this sweater, right? I continued. In my mind’s eye, I followed the woman across the street, towards a familiar building. No, that’s not how it goes. So she gets a sweater for her birthday, okay. I shift backwards, and my feet slide smoothly against the ground. The light is blinding now, everything else a distant echo, but I can still see her walk up the black onyx steps, carefully weave through the grooves in the ground, and stand. We face each other, now, and her ground is my ground. I blink against the glare of the city street light above me and gain focus of my surroundings. Shadows beyond her – buildings and cars and walking commuters. But it’s just she and I. We make eye contact, and the ground melts under me.