“Do you think we’ll ever leave the city” he asks me. I don’t think he wants to. I think he means that he wonders if our journey, if just our living or trying to will mean we need to, that we’ll need to leave the city. I don’t ask him if I’m right.
I ask him if he was talking to that guy but I say it like I am telling him that he wasn’t. He says he wasn’t. He could it’s just that, fuck it.
I tell him that I am not the boss of him. He nods. I tell him I’m not tellin him what to do, that I’m not his dad I’m his brother. He’s at the window like Kasha showed us. He’s movin the nocs, sweeping ‘em, I take it to mean that the asshole is gone or can’t be found or worse. I tell him we may, I say it just like that I say, we may.
He can tell that I want to go or knew I would in the morning after not killing the asshole, that I would not feel safe, that I would want to go. His shits packed and he is waiting. It better this way. We don’t make cakes that morning either.
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