falling Night

Sometimes, when the days grew short. The girl and I would find ourselves in the kitchen. Our features made gray in the light, and neither of us felt moved to turn the desklamp on. She would play Spanish music off the local radio station loud, and we would take pulls off the bottle in the freezer.

Back

and then forth.

Sometimes, she would cough.

We would laugh., but not say a word.

Then after two or three or four, the both of us would put on our warmer clothes, and walk out into the city dusk, moving over the same side streets we had walked, seventy or eighty times before.

This is when we talked,

and talked,

until she was too cold to walk anymore,

I liked these nights.


Address

The Comb Tree
42.316833,-72.656553
United States of America