This thought arrives between the time it takes my neck to cramp–as I lay back across the worn floorboards, feet up against the glass windowpane, my favorite yellow sneakers streaking the glass–and the time it takes the automated fluorescent bar over the stove to flicker on over in the next room.
The floor shudders as a hovercar zooms by the window. I wonder if they saw me, face up, my burgundy tank top bunched up and slipped over the right cup of my purple bra. It’s flower patterns all underneath.
Didn’t usually show like that, though I could admire it now.
Would he have cared?
There had been lights and nights before. I still feel the metal barpull on that paint-chipped beauty of an antique bar door. Not like other scrubbed clean metal-hard joints. Matched my pink polish.
Inside of warm, multilayer stage lights illuminating the space. Heavy wood counter like a ship rail. Red, rounded stools you hold onto tight, lined the single standing bar.
The boy sitting at the end of the counter always looks sad until you walk up to him and smile.
Talk about those dumb V-reality games that steal precious time. You, yourself have an old fashioned wrist phone with projector screen, you tell him.
He listened with intent.
He has a cyber implant at his temple that looks like two lines. Not a usual tattoo shape. He touches the patch and swipes his fingers down to decline any calls, only holding his temple for psychic messaging for the briefest of moments.
I talk on about food prices. He finally mumbles about his sister making his food; askes for some water. I know the signal and take a vial from my pocket and hand it over.
He smiles reluctant, and accepts it like a flower stem.
Pure swirling emotion. That’s how he takes it.
I get up and leave.