|
together, warming themselves, casting a glow over the evening shadows. White. Grey. Soft |
Gold. It could be a picture on a postcard, like the ones they sell at the supermarket. Imagine, |
being part of a German postcard. A black dot somewhere to the left. |
You spot a slightly displaced bench. It seems to have drifted in along with the tide. You walk |
towards it, leaving arthritic dents in the snow. The nylon of your windbreaker gives off faint |
whistles as you sit. The whistles are cold. You seat your grocery bag next to you, cup your |
mitten hands over your mouth and breathe out softly. The warm moisture permeates through |
the wool and cools into the creases of your palms. And when you pull your face back, a ball |
of mist momentarily floats in the cup of your hands before fading away into the icy air. You |
take out your diary and begin making a sketch of the view. You have always been good at |
drawing trees. "Witch Trees", you Once used to call these leafless ones. When you are done |
with the first tree you begin drawing a witch, crookedly perched on one of its branches. But it |
ends up looking more like a scribble. "Wich Tree" you write the way you used to spell it |
Once. There. Your own German Postcard. |
A lazy bus hisses by and stops a few feet from you. You wonder if this is the bus that will |
take you back to his – your – apartment. You read German as if it were English. |
"Order..misterrr..strabay," you read out loud. You pick up your obese grocery bag and your |
diary and the bus takes you away. |
You take a seat behind two middle-aged women. Their conversation sounds like a series of |
gargles and hushes interrupted by an occasional buzz. |
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