rivercrow

I sat on the hood of my car and watched the lit window of Doug’s third floor apartment. It was past 2 a.m. The engine ticked as it cooled.

From time to time, a shadow crossed the window. Each crossing was a sign to take a sip of tequila.

Backfill the hole.

I’d met Doug a few years ago at Borders. I had three books of surrealist love poetry to review. I had settled into an armchair amongst the CD bins.

“’scuse me.” He crouched beside me. Pale blue eyes. Thread eye of God pendant. Faded eye of God tattoo on the webbing between thumb and forefinger of his right hand. Right hand holding a stack of CDs.

“I left my glasses at home.” He pointed at the time signature on a cut of music on a Traffic CD. “Could you read that?”

I did. I read what he asked me to.

“It’s a rip-off,” he said, fanning the CDs out. “I have these already.”

“Bought them new as LPs,” I said.

He nodded. Lidded blue sideways glance.

He thanked me and wandered back to the stacks, singing along to the store’s soundtrack. Something about bad luck, a tune I knew but could not name. Doubtless he could name it, tell me who played it, who covered it, who had originally published it.

I did what I had to do. I invited him for coffee because there are no beds in Borders.

Later I realized there were no beds where Doug was.

I watched as one shadow stopped in the window. Another shadow joined it. The light turned off.

I set the empty Patron bottle on the roof of his car and drove home.

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