We live on an apt circle. Smaller then the big spherical one. A north circular circle. It’s mid-term now and hormonal boys circle my circle. Searching and longing in a hands down their pants way. They pass me by in their huge hoodies as I circle our circle eveningtime.
“Well men”, I mumble respectfully, for they are more men then boys and are searching for truth and sex. “Sniffle you mumbling, stumbling sunt”, one always mutters. They’re looking for Darla, she’s home safe though. I have the key, you see, with me.
There’s a moment, an instant, a tiny small part which is less, much less then a tenth of a second, in Romania when the rosary beads hanging from the rear view mirror sway more then gently, the holy beads lurch leftwards and I ask “ Did you see that?” and sickeningly, an affirmative reply reminds me that I lived.
Relative velocity, get out the math book and do the sums. The olive guy in the black suit who owns the black German projectile in which we hurtle across central Europe, well, he’s doing 120 mph on the wrong side of the road, our side if you will. The relative velocity generator, who is no relative I’m assured, is doing something similar on the WRONG central European side of the road. In the chasm of that instant of realisation, we touch death and the crucifix sways 90 degrees, in that infinity we live because the Transylvanian black suit does a Michael Schumacher.
Budapest, four consecutive shaky cigarettes and trembling expensive Danube-side beers, loitering hookers and redemption. The crash beckons but the beer is stronger and so is the later second bottle of Villany soft red. Heathrow in a instant, conversant with a cut glass Reaganite reading Revelation on the plane, the crash looms large and waits until the last hop later that evening to our own stormy banana republic and then, I crash and crash from 34,000 vomity feet, screaming inside and needing to do something, anything, after feeling the fear and wondering why.