Walking down a city alley, the wind brings me whirls of confetti, and the smell of piss.
“I haven’t had anyone throw up in my cab in two years. It happened a lot at first, but you start to be able to tell who will and just don’t pick them up.”
“I never pick up young girls after 2 a.m. on a Friday, Saturday night anymore. They’re the ones who throw up.”
“There would be too much to write! I would need rolls of paper. People do such crazy things. I would spend the rest of my life writing, no time for anything else.”
Moving slowly, like a child through her peas.
Unable to control the unfolding of events, I spent the evening in nervous agitation. I can recall the look of the food eaten during those hours, but not any tastes. When I try, all I feel is bare feet on polished floorboards, and an anxious pace.