Found Postcard
There are band-aids and hair in the garbage can in the washroom at Dexter’s. Fly catching ribbon hangs from the ceiling. Single men in sleeveless undershirts sit at the bar. They stare at the TV and speak in short sentences, dreaming of lottery wins, landlord revenge and the waitress with the blonde hair cinched in a ponytail.
You cannot escape the humidity on this night or the weight of the lives that inhabit this place.
Outside, the weather breaks, a flash of lightning and a crack of thunder, rain suddenly pouring. On the sidewalk, a dishwasher in combat fatigues flicks his cigarette away. Looking up, his hands outstretched, he lets the water wash over him, transforming him into a music video, a scene from his favorite movie.
He is reborn.
Underneath the awning girls in tube tops giggle, while their guys– all with sunglasses perched on top of their heads– watch them giggle, wondering if they can get away with carrying them out into the cooling torrents of weather, their girls smiling and kicking, becoming transparent and slick with possibility.
I’m sick of watching.
Jonathan