finished
sit on the pavement and let the rain pour on you, your jacket soaked and refracting streetlights, washes of blue and orange on the wet pavement. stare at the rain, the pavement, passing cars. wipe a cold, wet palm across your face, watch drops of water bead slowly on your hood, drip onto your damp legs. look over at the stretch of concrete beside you; it was empty a moment ago, and now the master is sitting there.
he looks exactly like you: the same dripping black jacket, the same hood, the same torn jeans, dirt-stained sneakers. his face is exactly like yours, but his expression is entirely different. that sly, mocking look in his eyes, the sardonic twist of his lips - you could never reproduce that look, not if you practiced in front of a mirror for a thousand years.
'lost n adrift n aw again huh?' he says.
'yes,' you reply, nodding. drops of rain water fall from the edge of your hood.
'well, n havin trouble knowin which way's right? ta stay or go, like the song says n aw?'
'yeah,' you say. 'exactly.'
'ya feelin as if ya picked up somethin fair awful, tha's gonna stain the body fa the rest a'you days n now wonderin if ya signed yaself up fa a fair 'mount a'rejection n shame n aw.'
'you got it.'
'n thinkin bout wha ya got in exchange fa tha, n if it was worth it n if it makes sense ta keep it.'
'so, so, so, as they say in japan.'
'well,' and here his voice changes, takes on the twang of a southern gentleman. 'as my grandpappi always used ta say, there don't beat nothin for a good, old-fashioned think.'
'i've been thinking. that's why i'm sitting here.'
he laughs, and the sound of it rings empty as space.
'you aint thinkin boy!' he says, standing up. 'you just reactin.'
he looks exactly like you: the same dripping black jacket, the same hood, the same torn jeans, dirt-stained sneakers. his face is exactly like yours, but his expression is entirely different. that sly, mocking look in his eyes, the sardonic twist of his lips - you could never reproduce that look, not if you practiced in front of a mirror for a thousand years.
'lost n adrift n aw again huh?' he says.
'yes,' you reply, nodding. drops of rain water fall from the edge of your hood.
'well, n havin trouble knowin which way's right? ta stay or go, like the song says n aw?'
'yeah,' you say. 'exactly.'
'ya feelin as if ya picked up somethin fair awful, tha's gonna stain the body fa the rest a'you days n now wonderin if ya signed yaself up fa a fair 'mount a'rejection n shame n aw.'
'you got it.'
'n thinkin bout wha ya got in exchange fa tha, n if it was worth it n if it makes sense ta keep it.'
'so, so, so, as they say in japan.'
'well,' and here his voice changes, takes on the twang of a southern gentleman. 'as my grandpappi always used ta say, there don't beat nothin for a good, old-fashioned think.'
'i've been thinking. that's why i'm sitting here.'
he laughs, and the sound of it rings empty as space.
'you aint thinkin boy!' he says, standing up. 'you just reactin.'