I pocketed the notion, quick on the uptake
as per usual - talk slow, low, on the side
and resist the temptation to flick a pupil
her way. The air thickened into slag, each
psychic wave held in molten handcuffs,
every atom buzzing but locked stiff. The
normative resolution - to step forward,
break the silence with a scuffed slice of
charisma, felt alien. Instead it felt right to
insist on the supernatural, or at least the
science fiction. Wait the night out, let dark
shadows loom over the exit out onto the
street, and cough it up in a sleight of touch.
And that's the plan I relented, sized up
yet fuzzy in its precision. The blue print
was rushed and scrappy, even the paper
unhappy with its own dimensions. As I
drew across the borders with my finger tip -
put one foot in front followed by the other -
and she drew closer into view, I caught
the rumblings of eraser bits stuck onto
the page. An old structure or repartee laid
underneath the new - and then, confused,
I molassed out a greeting that she chewed
through for a moment. Then she side-slid,
out of line and into a circle of others. That

was that. The soundtrack stopped. An inner
dialogue struggled to stay mute. I didn't
need narration to make the plot point clear.