(no subject)
I was sitting on the Commons when a man walked by. He saw me, and immediately approached me, cross-legged on the grass beside me. He was a native, from Cape Breton, who had just arrived in Halifax. He shook my hand and asked me my name. He had long, wiry, soft black hair that grew past his shoulders. He was wearing jeans and a white t-shirt; his eyes spoke of age. He was dark, thin. His strong jaw line complimented the sharp, delicate curves of his nose and cheeks. He had a moustache, he had blue eyes. He was gentle, in speech. His accent was strong. He told me he had just returned from travelling: California, Florida, Boston, Maine, New Brunswick. I asked if he liked California and he did not. Nor did he like Florida. He said, 'They say it's so hot there, it's not so hot there'. He told me his brother had been stabbed to death in Florida. He said the crime in California was awful. He laughed at the most unexpected moments of his stories, the moments when one would usually fall silent with grief; he laughed, hehehe. Quietly. He asked about my life. I told him. I offered him a cigarette, he lit mine with a gold lighter. He admired my long hair, he said it was beautiful, and that he used to have long hair, long past his hips, and he cut it because of a promise he made, because he always kept his promises. He said he'd never cut it again. He said all his brothers had longer hair than he did, even the one that died. I asked him where he was traveling next. He told me Bolivia, and asked if I wanted to come. I told him I would rather Peru. He said, Columbia. He said, 'Many years ago, my friend died in my arms. He got shot. Right here', and he pointed to three inches below his heart, 'and I held him. And his mouth was bubbling with blood, his lips bubbling with blood, and he was trying to talk, and I couldn't hear him, hehehe, I was saying what, what, over and over again but I couldn't hear him, and then I carried him, I picked him up, and he was only a small guy but he was heavy. I never knew what dead-weight meant until then, but I carried him. I carried him for awhile. I carried him through a swamp, up to my waist in swamp, and I took him to a field, where there was a church on the other side of the field, and I laid him there and ran and got the priest who came and blessed him and I still held him. I'll never forget it. I'll never forget it. His name was Ricky. I said if I ever had a son I'd name him Ricky, but I never had a son, hehehe.' It was the last time he was in Columbia. He told me about his family, his brothers, his mother, his ex-wife who took his house. He told me about how he used to fish 100 miles from the coast, 'the sharks, there's one big shark out there on the other side of Sable Island, the sharks are beautiful, and the whales and the seals'. He told me how he never wants to work again, how he spent his whole life working, he wants to continue traveling. He has an I-Roc, he said, but he can't drive it anymore because he drinks. He never drank his whole life, until four years ago, when his life fell apart, and now he drinks. He drinks alone, he loves to smoke grass. He had tattoos on his arms that were written in a language I didn't know; he missed home. He told me about his motorcycles, and his lawyer, and his friendships lost, and his friendships gained. He looked at me without saying anything for awhile. He was gentle. I had to go. I told him, and he held my hand for a moment, and leaned over to hug me. I could feel and hear him breathing deeply the smell of my hair, of my shoulders. He smelled like liquor and soap. He asked if I had a boyfriend, I said no, and he grabbed my face and pressed it against his. I could feel his wet lips on my lips. He could feel my resistance. Then he got up, and I got up, and he said he'd see me again, in another life, in Bolivia.