This is what I was wearing: Light-cotton, green-plaid pyjama pants with a drawstring and pockets, plus a green, long-sleeve T-shirt.
I was standing outside. On the rock sidewalk at near night. The final remnants of birds were heading to their trees. They don’t fly at night because they bump into one another. Or something like that.
Bats replace them in the night sky. I was hoping to see the bats sail out from under the downstairs terraza, but I had arrived too late, it seemed.
Bats are not idlers. At the first hint of darkness, they head out for bugs.
My child bride had not arrived home from the gym where she was pumping iron. I missed her, while standing there. But you’re never alone in this neighborhood. I heard the animals next door. Pigs, horse, goats and so on.
It ain’t Kansas, Toto. And I like that.
Over and past the roof of the sex motel, I saw a massive cloud of black smoke from a burning field not far away. Laced with the fading sunlight, it looked like bombs bursting on Berlin.
The metal gate swings open, and she pulls in. That means it’s time for a salad, and we’ll watch Mad Men on Netflix. I’m glad I don’t live in Texas anymore.