Recurring: Swim Sun 11AM. (at Church)
It glowed with that inexorable hum that old fridges and fluorescent effuse. I couldn’t see him save for a cherry in the blank and a slight smoke trail above the nothing.
"You sure are a creepy bastard, you know that?"
His face drowned in the color of a day’s worth of bile, his eyes were that much worse: dark and sore, the skin barely able to contain pockets of blood from corroding outward to find a less lethal vessel.
"Here," he said as he shook my hand with a cupped palm and a plastic wad that I couldn’t check ’til I got home. He disappeared back into the blank. No words, nothing but that smoke chasing him like a ghost, then it too disappearing. It made me wonder what it’ll be like when there’s nothing left for ghosts to haunt.
I’m trusting an essential stranger. He could fuck me over without batting his slow eyelids. He could skip town tonight and I’d be storming out of my apartment, down the stairs to find myself sitting behind a dead steering wheel, near broke, unable to buy gas, and — worst of all, completely sober.