Not Here

 

Nith Bar. Men like him, unseen. The beer he can’t bother with. Wordless talk, tasting less and less.

Deer Creek. Snow falling on trees is the sign language of soft birds above alder trails. Haunted in the sun shattering off the milky sheets of grass.

Driving away. Motes of snow melting from his shoes to the floor of the car. Perfume of past time. His computer humming on the passenger seat.

The seatbelt indicator glowing. Everything’s more real if two can see it.

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