“We should leave.” He tells me. There is a difference, of course there is. That’s what he’s sayin.
“We should leave.” I say.
“Do we know where yet?” He asks me. He drinks now. I think he does so to be self-ironic, for the cliché. It’s good that he does, that he drinks. All I can think of is the art store up by the old swap meet on Goldenwest. For some reason it’s all I think of. It doesn’t hit me til later. “What do we need?”
“What do we want right?” I say to him. “I’ll stay here and die on this roof with you.”
We leave two days later. I cut all the sand bags. I don’t know why I just do. I don’t go crazy I just knife them like tires, that’s it, I don’t dump them out. This was before we ran everywhere.
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