Freckles with backpack
Planetary planes
She carried a smooth black modern waterproof laptop bag on her back. A leather backpack, slightly slimmer than her shoulders, hiding behind her frame. Simple in design, slim straps, square case, just wide enough to blockade.
We chatted soldierly, at the bar, a wooden counter, bulky with both our bags hung on hooks underneath. I love the way the world around vacuums out, where the clutter of every conversation piles up into layers, carried on like shields, a cover of sound. Isolated within the noise, nothing else in focus, words on islands, just the two of you, a singular conversation in a chamber of voices swirling about.
We talked NY/London, E1 vs N2, old and new, child, adult, copy/paste, car crashed into immigrant break. Connecting dots, while feeling for something in the dark. I forget why we were there, where the beginning or end was. But I locate cherished, a broken crown, an island of freckles, a smile-frowned. I'm one step over from where our shoulders had been.
I take the train, a song within. There's a husky on the ground. The ground is a moving train. Everybody is beautiful. Suddenly and delayed. Everybody is in forward, judgement only if we pay. I feel a little lofty, lighter and refrained. I open book to pain, to pen to pain.
I hadn't wanted to tell her about her freckles, almost as if she'd yet to notice. She was real, kind, a magical child taking flight. We say things, we say things and fly. We make our paths to climb, while we travel about collecting our belongings in case.
I went to hug her, when she arrived, and again when we parted at the train. But her backpack sat squarely in the way.
