You will not need to look for him. He will come to you. He will come to you on a warm night, the last night of September, and you will see him, smell him, feel him, even with your eyes and your mind and your heart closed. Like joy, like pain, he will demand to be felt. And you will feel him.
On your front stoop you are sitting with your knees together and your feet apart and you are smoking a second cigarette. You never smoke more than one before bed. But it is the last night of September, and tomorrow is October and autumn and cold and emptiness, and tonight the rain is pleasant. Still empty, but warm, and therefore a little comforting. So you are smoking a second cigarette with your eyes closed, imagining the smoke as it curls and presses against the walls of your lungs, seeing its dim meandering path in the dark like the negative of a forgotten photo, allowing yourself a rare moment to feel nothing.
And then him. Continue reading