Out the window, they’re walking in the grey. They’re talking and they’re smiling and they have somewhere to go. Inside, we’re sitting in yellow. Some of us are talking and some of us are smiling. Some of us are somewhere we went, and some of us don’t know where we’ve been.
They’re on the table: my clipboard, my beers, my phone, my pen, my ashes. It’s my little world, in my little circle of lamplight, apart from the rest of us, just like the rest of us. Behind the bar, they’re getting ready for trivia night, for the crowds that are gonna come and have most of the answers, lose some of their cash, like they’ve done since time began, as far as I’m bothered.
It’s not like I’m gonna join in.
I’m going over to the other side. I’m gonna betray. I’ll be outside the window. I’ll be walking in the grey. My feet’ll be as large as life in the window, passing by, purposeful. My feet’ll be carrying me, fast and loud and twenty-something.
Then I’ll get where I’m going. There won’t be anything for them, or me, to want. We won’t be grey and we won’t be yellow; we’ll just be. We’ll be.
Maybe I’ll do what I’m supposed to do — the work I came to do.
Or maybe I’ll sit on the step all night, lighting cigarettes in hope of seeing friends.
I live in the now. I can tell it’s the now because it’s made up of a bunch of things from the past and a bunch of things from the future.