Only the dark, having shown itself, would then retire.
And you wish that same opportunity was yours.
That same chance.
Back inside your apartment, you kneel in the doorway to untie your boots.
Your hands smell like body odor from lifting the man up by the armpits.
You make guns with each hand then point them at the wall, doing gun-sounds with your mouth.
It’s your twenty-eighth birthday.
About Sam Pink
