✖ — ANOTHER SLEEPLESS NIGHT spent in a limbo between purposeful wandering and purposeless loitering, shared company turning what would otherwise be wasted hours into the chrysalis for a still-forming memory. The sky hangs heavy with encroaching storm front and restless dreams. Cicada song harmonizes with the constant grumble of urban life. Layers upon layers of overlapping posters sprawl like a heat rash along the length of the streetlamp Micah leans against. Lost pets gazing plaintively from low resolution candids. Summer coding camps. Volunteer opportunities. Abducted kids with gap-toothed smiles. Local fleamarket just south of the main strip every second Saturday of the month. Runaway teens who look everywhere except the camera. Call for zine submissions. Eat the rich, but only after you can no longer stomache the taste of yourselves. $5 garageband show, BYOB. Missing cases that never made it beyond a nebulous periphery. Worried you might be haunted? Call NOW for a free consultation with the best medium this side of the otherside! People and animals and things that might not exist even in memory anymore. We Can Handle Any Infestation.
He recognizes one of the faces peeking from behind the humidity-curled edge of a bakesale advertisement. Saw her just shy of 24 hours ago through a one-way door left open for too long. She was waiting for someone to close it behind her, he thinks but can't know; she hadn't spoken, just silently watched him shut her away forever. What he does know: that before she turned to face him, the spill of ink-dark hair down her back and the way she held herself made his heart sink like a stone to the bottom of a well. That it hasn't yet regained full buoancy.
"You ever think 'bout how easy it is t' disappear? T' just slip through the cracks 'n be good as gone, even if there're people who'd look for ya?" he asks, vowels compressed by teeth holding an unlit cigarette steady. A grin flashes into place with unpracticed ease. "Ain't implyin' I mean t' pull some 'here today, gone the next' shit on you. You'd have'ta use a metric fuckton'a industrial grade pesticide t' maybe have a chance at gettin' rid of me. 'S just..."
Flick of a lighter, deep inhale. Menthol and nicotine and late summer air that's sweet in the same way rot runs sweet before rupture flood his lungs. The exhale comes out in a series of short coughs. Waving to clear the smoke and his watering eyes, Micah finishes the thought in a breathless rush. "Dunno. Been thinkin' too much lately, or somethin'." He clears his throat, tries and fails to hold back a grimace. "Want one?"
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