The Last Train Out of Town

She gathered a blue satin wrap about her arms and shoulders, hiding what needed not be hidden. Her legs, two silky stretches of cocoa-brown, lay bare. Silky stretches of cocoa-brown entered my line sight two hours earlier at Union Station. We waited for the same last train out of town. 

A stunning girl with a beautiful voice, she shared it with me in under-the-breath tones, a guitar resting on the brown skin of her thighs, the lavender tips of her fingers danced and clutched. 

She sang "How can you love me, if you don't like me?"

Her equally stunning sister joined us. We three talked about Dilla and Chapelle and Dubai and hair and regimes and famine. We put each other on. They burned. I chilled.

Her sister retired.

A familiar chemical rush filled my brain. 

Connection.

I had no aspirations but to sit and talk and listen. 

But the night would be over soon. The night was over. It was morning. And I rested easy in her bed, she in some other corner of the house. 

I woke up at the first light of day. The rest of the house would sleep on for hours.

Not ready to reflect on the night while I was still in the scene, I tried to cling to the remnants of time. Not willing to let our hours assume the hazy quality of memory, I wrote hundreds of words and threw them all away.