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every other man

The light outside the main entrance to our building has gone out again. The heavy metal door swings wide as I pull a hat down over my ears. In the darkness there are maybe twenty teenagers standing still. My boot scrapes across the ground, slowing down. Their hands in pockets, shoulders hunched, I look for a space to pass between them. A voice appears, saying hello in English, with an obvious accent. I am all instinct, sayingpivyet as I pass, not looking back, wondering who said this. There was a boy that was an extra in Blackbetty that lives in our building, but he is too young, too short for it to have been him.

I look back, navigating the puddles in the street. It does not make any sense.

N is with V, making their way home. I meet them, pulling V into my arms as she chatters about her day, about dry leaves and princesses, about her grandmother's apartment and what she ate there. We are going back home, and I try to explain the odd collection that stands outside. As we pass th…

the disappearance of imaginary messages

On most days the sidewalks are a lumpy sheet of ice. I have gotten good at tiptoeing across them, sliding, skidding but not falling. E grips my hand as tight as she can and we make our way. I stopped realizing this high wire act has been going on for eight years now. They say you do two years in prison, the day you go in and the day you come out. I think I know something about what that means now.

There was a time when I spent every day forcing my will, imagining an invisible page turning, a phone call, a message and us on a plane the next day. Each day I whittled away at this fantasy, refining it, crafting the language of the message, each time more terse, more empty, more blunt. I know it was spring when I felt this way, maybe three years ago. I was counting the days until our release, based on absolutely nothing but desire.

I wondered if we should empty the fridge, because we would be gone soon. Did E really need new school clothing if we were leaving? Did we need a five pound bag of rice, or a small package? Surely the news would arrive any minute at this point. The words repeated in my head, rolling around like those circus motorcycle acts in their steel cages. 





At one point, I could hardly walk alone in the street without wanting to cry out.

Something snapped.
I smelled ozone and burning diesel the entire night.
The imaginary message disappeared the next day.

Within a week the ideas evaporated completely. There was no defeat, no surrender, no admission. They was simply a light that turned off. The wires were ripped from the wall, the breakers demolished and the door hammered shut. If that room was going to be opened again, it would need to be though the window, climbing in from the balcony.





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