Beginning to hear The Ticking now. A glance at the wall-clock. 2:05, just jerking up to 2:06…they’d have to get a cab/train/something by, say, 4:00…
Closing his eyes, letting the juices flow, spicy but not too spicy, the sausage skin crisp but the insides bursting with juice, and the fries with a little “burn” on the outside, but white as apples inside, sprinkled with garlic, fried in, it must have been sesame oil. Slowly finishing up the sandwiches. Another round of non-alcoholic beers, a break in the clouds outside, sunlight suddenly flooding the streets, like searchlights on white sequins, like being a mite inside of a giant vanilla-on-vanilla sundae.
2:30.
“OK…we’ve got just a little more time….”
Paid, a quick visit to the John, the waitress happy with the ample tip, Buzz thinking to himself She’s probably a student at Loyola or Northwestern or Roosevelt or the Art Institute, remember how it wassssssss…like Hamlet’s father’s ghost —remember meeee.
Out into blast furnace brightness. Hardly feeling the cold. The secret was in the light. Hailing another cab.
“Fourteen eleven North State!” he told the driver.
“Where are we going now?” asked Malinche, “We have to get to the airport…”
“Just one short visit….”
“OK.”
Resigned.
And even if they missed their plane, so…? They’d stay overnight somewhere Continue Reading
