She told me; I want to tell you three things and I want you to shut up whilst I’m talking. Holding up a hand, she extended a finger as she counted. There’s a dream… a memory… and a verdict. They are connected, but I don’t know how.
The bridge creaked in the wind, bustling through the narrow valley below. Our bare, dirty feet hung into the abyss, as curious animals peered up to see whether we were a threat or just angels. I passed the half bottle of warm liquor and she ingested it with the grim determination of someone enduring minor surgery without pain relief.
She told me that she dreams about The Boy. How he always appears in the background; leaning on a postbox as she walks through 1920’s Berlin, or in the seventh row of a Stones gig she imagined she attended.
She told me about a memory of The Boy hijacking a car to impress her but realising he couldn’t drive. So she took the wheel and got them far away before the car alarm attracted too much attention. They dumped the car; to stop him feeling too disappointed she nibbled his ear until he got erect and left him alone to finish the job.
The verdict is… that I should’ve saved him. I let out a disguised cough; this is anodyne for such a sharp mind.
I tell her; he is a severed portal to a place you want to be.
Anywhere but here.