Big Dump

We meet again when he wanders up the stairs from the basement and settles on top of the counter, greeting me with an unshaven smile, his loose shirt running down his body like a long shed skin, his trousers with a few wrinkles and pale, bare feet with crooked toes swinging in the air.

Asymmetric and static-haired, he sits with one shoulder protruding toward me, so there is a slanted line perpendicular to his neck, the sun falling on it and almost blending his skin with the light, taking him away nip by nip.

Upstairs, I believe, I have a few things I would like to do; I am here just because I wanted a drink, however his presence arrests me, makes me take a seat at the table and cross my arms on my chest and stare at him, or at my cup, or out the window where the summer is full and green, where he was just today, or yesterday – judging by the dirt and grass smears on his trousers. Upstairs where I have taken refuge from reality, lulling myself into believing it were cold, nursing the feeling of the separation and following him in my head, his sinking steps, and heartbeats, and silent exhales, and gestures meant for me.