moving away is running away
One-way downhill. Back to traffic. Ten at night. Walking home. Holding internal debate about which pet name upsets me more, "dude" or "guy." I'm just ready to decide when I see someone walking down the middle of the street, back to traffic. His eyes are closed and arms outstretched like an urban tightrope walker, death inches to either side. He doesn't seem to notice the cars that scream at him as they pass; he doesn't know that tomorrow I move to New Mexico, that tonight I will save him, that I am his hero. I yell to him, "Dude, you're gonna get hit," and I realize that he's not the one in trouble.
One-way downhill. Back to traffic. Ten at night. Walking home. Holding internal debate about which pet name upsets me more, "dude" or "guy." I'm just ready to decide when I see someone walking down the middle of the street, back to traffic. His eyes are closed and arms outstretched like an urban tightrope walker, death inches to either side. He doesn't seem to notice the cars that scream at him as they pass; he doesn't know that tomorrow I move to New Mexico, that tonight I will save him, that I am his hero. I yell to him, "Dude, you're gonna get hit," and I realize that he's not the one in trouble.