Fragments

He walked uphill, taking a bite of a floppy brown sandwich

recalling the time she had balanced eggs on the roof of the car. Go

first Sir, she’d said. Later, he found her pants on the floor, as she

leaned over his toaster lighting the stump of a cigarette on the

glowing grill. Does that make you happy, he’d asked her? Like

crunching Parma violets, she’d said. He still remembers her

sounding out Croc-o-dile and Ali- gate-or. I hate this place, you

love this place, became their argument. Not like the Bahamas in

a hurricane; all that money wasted.  He remembers her mouth

like milkshake as he reached the top of the hill. He never should

have left her. All those ropes to play with and she chose the one

that was part of the structure.