“Any,” she says. “Yes, any.”
And so any.
North 71 Cleveland. A temperate mood just like a Floridian evening in June. Patio tables wet with rain; an umbrella silhouette; a man alone in the fog.
“Fourteen days. Fourteen days! and then suddenly one became three and everything went to hell,” the engineer exaggerates.
“He’s working on a treaty with the surveyor,” she explains to me in confidence.
“A bold move,” I reply.
“Aw hell, I am going outside to smoke. Want to join me?”
She pairs up with umbrella man and I leaf through my notebook. A transference of company.
I listen. The minister is mumbling as he writes a keynote address. Ice cubes are talking. The low moan of a distant train.
Vibrations from an undercurrent of violence disrupting our natural inclination for solitude.
She returns and umbrella man is gone. The Engineer is now orchestrating a coup d’état. “The dams will be our first objective!”
“He’s going to end up before a firing squad,” she predicts and giggles.
The gray light behind her mutes her features. Her shoulders are wet.
She sips her drink.
“It’s dangerous times we live in,” I say.
“We can go south, though. My sister lives down south and she says its safe. Not filled with all this talk of revolution. We can slip away at dawn.”
“I can’t. I have to go north.”
“North 71. Cleveland. It was on the sign and I have to follow it.”
“A damn sign?”
“It’s all I have.”