Tipping Drunks for Directions
Two figures collide at speed and strange angles, the arms and legs in random directions and pieces falling off. Two thousand, she says, and writes it on a scrap of paper salvaged from the bottoms of pockets. The woman shouting sex and something incomprehensible at the train station, where we wait for half an hour for something to happen and nothing does, walking on a broken heel. You never saw a hand so dead, but we found graffitti there and plenty of it, Felix with a gun, and music with accordions, swapping stories of bicycling out of money. And this is how I got away: That night, she sleeps, a pile of angles, elbows and knees, and a face buried somewhere beneath. One of us pretends to be asleep while the other one leaves, because we already said goodbyes.
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