end of the line

fell asleep on the bus

the driver woke me

told me to get off

 

i look around this foreign sidewalk

see a bar

find it has a jukebox that plays only 80s

i select small town boy by bronski beat

 

find a seat

and order

a girl

japanese

asks me to buy her a drink

 

i feel too lost to go forward

tell her

“i’m not what you need”

 

“i just need a drink”

i concede

she takes a seat

 

out of touch

by hall and oates comes on

i just want to be alone

with my memories

 

but she is here with me

my present reality

 

she doesn’t probe, question

just drinks

 

her empty glass

prompts her to say

that she can bring things my way

if i buy her another

 

“don’t do that”

i tell her

“please”

i cup her chin in my hand

“i’ll buy you ten bottles

just don’t sell yourself

you are too special

you matter

and are better then

everything around you”

(wait, did the nihilist just say that?)

 

she starts to cry

tears fill my eyes

i order another round

we drink

no more sound

just beer bottles hitting my teeth

while the ice in her glass clinks

 

she touches my hand

i flinch

love never gives an inch

without first demanding a mile

 

“i have to work in the morning”

she tells me

“could you walk me home?”

 

i pay the tab

she takes my hand

alphaville’s big in japan

starts playing

 

we find the sidewalk

i offer her a smoke

she declines

i light mine

and tell her to lead the way

 

she’s just around the corner

but she must not have much

of a job

even the cockroaches are waving

a white flag

 

i can see why she wanted an escort

at her door

she doesn’t implore

but still she offers,

“you can come in”

 

truth is i don’t know where i am

and would prefer to navigate

in the day light

 

we enter

a studio apartment

without a center

 

we find her bed

but it remains

devoid of intercourse or head

fully clothed we spoon

though my hand

gently gropes her breasts

through her top

 

we fall asleep amid the caress

 

*

 

morning finds my nose in her hair

she stirs

i could purr

but she gets up to get ready for work

 

“where do you work?”

i ask amid the morning haze

that hangs in my mind

 

“yakitori koshiji”

 

yakitori koshiji?

wait

i’m in little tokyo

 

i leave her to her routine

find she has an actual record player

with a 45 on it

the sparrow and the nightingale

by wolfsheim

 

i think i’m in love

 

i put the needle on the vinyl

and it plays

she enters the room

 

“what’s your name?”

i ask

a little embarrassed that i don’t know

 

“jenny”

 

“is your number 867-5309?”

 

she rolls her eyes

grabs a pen

and my hand

and writes her number on my palm

talk about numerology

 

“i have to go

do what you want”

she states as she sweeps

out the door

 

the record plays,

“leave a light on in the night for me”

as the door closes

 

i put her number in my phone

and text,

“what time are you off?”

 

“whenever the dinner rush is over”

 

“do you have plans tonight?”

 

“what do you think?”

 

“can i meet you somewhere?”

i press

 

“just be there when i get home”

 

um

o.k.

 

i find a liquor store

buy a as much as i can carry

along with some frozen burritos

 

get back to her place

flip through her records

find all the discs

i smashed long ago

on a really bad acid trip

 

i play the psychedelic furs

echo and the bunny men

howard jones

naked eyes

the thompson twins

with every other time

being wolfsheim

 

she opens her unlocked door

sees me and stands there in the doorway

 

“you stayed?”

 

i nod

 

point at the bottles i bought

“you thirsty?” i ask

 

“always”

 

but instead of heading for a bottle

she heads for me

full throttle

and locks her lips to mine

 

after our kiss i caress her soft face

move into a lingering embrace

 

she whispers,

“i’m off tomorrow”

 

if i erase all her sorrow

it just might erase mine

 

on frozen burritos we dine

and start to drink

 

tell each other

all the things we ever think

 

play her records till it’s almost dawn

but before the morning can spawn

we place our double on her single bed

i know what you’re thinking but instead

i kiss the sleep around her eyes

 

we give in but we don’t compromise

arranged once again into a spoon

my hand fondling familiar territory

 

this isn’t the end of our story

just the end of the night

shades drawn against the light

and the sparrow and the nightingale

is on a loop on her record player

as we drift off

bodies pressed against

 

we both live behind a fence

which one day i hope to tear down

 

***