Rails don’t run out of downtown into
Northeast at these late hours, at least
not until 5:30 am.
So we plant ourselves on a bench with
VIP access to the bathroom. An older waiter strolls to
our table not very excited by the sight that we’re here.
He’s seen this before.
Young Portland punk kids come in with no intention of
spending money on a meal.
And that’s exactly what we did.
I answered his dry gaze with,
“uh me? I’ll just have a cup of coffee please”.
Zena, whose hazel eyes burst with light, ordered
hash browns with gravy on the side for us to share:
the only vegan option on
the menu that I would happily accept eating.
And so it began, our night’s
countdown ‘til a foggy winter’s dawn.
I wouldn’t have even known how to answer
the questions about my year living on the west coast,
that I knew would come when I
arrived back home. I couldn’t answer them because
my life felt like a series of lucid dreams.
Millions of intimate moments like these,
sharing with Zena our desires and sore spots over
a plate of hash browns.
Where life is perfect just the way it is,
even with its jagged edges and clouded horizons.
The pieces of rudimentary time that
tied us together meant more to me than
any radical travel saga.
I lay out my body across the bench
just perpendicular to her.
We manage to carefully sip every drop of coffee in
the pot till we couldn’t draw out any more.