wjsullivan.net

Not Clouds

1.

The house is flooding is the indication I get from the man outside running emergency loops in the intersection, where drunk van drivers, notably friend William, are sliding in the fresh snow. Nothing stops at a time like this. There is a moment in which things can be rescued, but it is the same moment in which things must be left behind, and that moment

2.

almost passed before I managed to undo my belt, and did pass before I noticed her standing in the corner, watching my boxers fill with cigarettes, shoes, a wallet and a raincoat. "You may not watch me

3.

undress," I said, unable, for the moment, to be politely embarrassed, under the circumstances.

She accepts and signs for a delivery, examines the receipt, and complains about the price. Always.

4.

The waves gobble up the stilts beneath the house. We will soon be inundated. I'm afraid. Moments before, I had seen them coming from the deck, but had thought they were clouds rolling, my own clouds even, from the smoke. That's how I get here, on the roof near a car, a truck and the running man.

5.

I ask friend William to slow down. He points to the man. He points to

6.

I decide to start the car myself, to get out of the honking truck's way, and to leave before things get worse. Things are about to get worse. The common complaint I hear is: "There are not enough cues." I left her behind, partially for that reason. Things were about to get worse.

The man interrupts his loops to flash me

7.

a lighted OPEN sign, indicating passable roads and a feeling of safety, endless and thick.

I loop the sign, a message

8.

I loop the message, a sign, over my head and

9.

over my head and head

10.

and head for

11.

the passage.