seattle gothic
they want to refurbish the troll's car. you don't want to remember what is inside. you can still hear it trying to get out through the sand, on quiet days. you have dreams that you force yourself to wake up from. the next day, it is smugly silent. you are glad to not see it.
you look down into the park. it is closed. there is someone there, waiting for you. they were there the last night, and the night before that. sometimes, they have a dog. you have never joined them. you have never talked to them. you have never seen their face. you are glad.
the wind howls. you tell yourself it is the wind. a branch falls. you tell yourself it is the wind. something scrapes across your window. you tell yourself it is the wind. something breathes wetly by your ear. you tell yourself it is the wind.
the sun retreats again behind the clouds. you peek out from inside your home, look up. something that you choose to believe is a plane goes by. you pull up the shades. the sun can't see you anymore.
a man on a bicycle stops you. you take out your ear bud. "do you think," he pants, sweat streaming down his face, "that the united states government is afraid of its citizenry?" he repeats himself in swahili, then vietnamese, still panting. you tell him that you heard him the first time. you put your ear bud in and keep walking.
the city hates umbrellas. you learned your lesson after you broke your third. it was bad enough that there were holes in the fabric. you pull your hood up. the city is pleased.
you watch the ducks go out, people inside them. you watch the ducks come in, people inside them. sometimes, they are even the same people. or wearing the skin of the same people. you prefer not to think about it.
you drive across the toll bridge. you glance up, read the price per axle. you do some quick math. you mentally promise the city five eighths of your second born child.
every day, there is a homeless person under the bridge. every day, you try to ignore them. every day, you hear them knock on your window. every day, you hear them gnaw on your car's antenna. every day, the light turns green, and you speed on, grateful. every day, you buy a new car antenna. the old one has someone's cheek on it.
you use the carpool lane. the fish nibble on your toes. you use the carpool lane. the moss grows in your shirt. you use the carpool lane. you use the carpool lane.
it is raining. the sun is shining. you sweat. where can you do your ceremony? the sun is shining. you reach over to the blinds, pause. the rain has to see you. you pull on your thickest coat. your gloves. your mask. the sun is shining. the sun does not recognize you. the rain does.
where do the buildings end? you drive. and you drive. and you drive. the people here stare at your car, hungry. you turn off your headlights. the buildings do not end. you turn on your headlights. the trees recognize you. you do not recognize the trees. the buildings do not end.
