Huddled over, the night sky burned cold above him. Stars sat crisp. His hands, well-worn and glowing, drank in the warmth of crackling red flame. The flames stayed low, as though they were conscious of his loneliness, and the loneliness of the night. His back was stone—frozen from the harsh truth of a planet-side dark and away from the comfort of the Sun. He did not grumble over his state. He did not speak anymore. Instead, he remembered. He remembered long-gone seasons. He remembered the color yellow and the years he knew. Only the flames made a sound. Even the running stars were silent. They passed at steady pace, cutting the sky in two without a thought—without consideration that someone might be watching. Why should they care? He stoked the little bit of wood he had left. The flames were dying down. It would come soon: the pain. It didn’t matter to him. There had been nights past when the cries of the others would carry on and on and on. But now, it was quiet. Beyond the glow, the world stretched out in waves. Sand and sky. Salt and sea. The lines melded and stretched and reformed; the air burned in his nostrils; sand assaulted his eyes, but he did not care. He was thinking of yellow. He was sitting across from her, and she was laughing. They passed their beer back and forth. They talked about their future and smelled her cigar’s smoke while they committed the act of love in the subtlest of ways: they were kind to one another. They coexisted, their hearts weaving together in the warm air of a summer afternoon. A breeze carried over. The honey locusts danced in a thousand shimmering leaves. He was far from the sand now, far from the aching cold—yes—he was across from her. She blinked, and looked up at him, and the feeling was there—oh, it had been so long. So long, he thought, since he’d had a reason but there she was, a memory, a warm wind. He opened his eyes. The flames were gone. Only a pulsing heap of red coals remained. He lay with his face in the sand, arms crossed, smiling—smiling, for she was there. She was right there, and birds were still calling, and leaves were still singing, and her eyes were still open and they could see him and, for that, he existed again. And he fell asleep there, in that otherworldly cold—alone, frozen, silent. He did not ramble on to the night as some loony lonesome would. He had her. So, he had hope. And the night took him at his finest, with she being his last sight, a smile across his lips.

Sheets of rain danced over the tall street-side windows. A couple ran by clinging to their disguises: they clung to their collars and pulled their hats down as though they were praying, as though it might save them from the coming weather. After them, no one passed the coffee shop. The city turned in and fell to darkness. The lights of the coffee house became an island—no, a ship—adrift in the storm. Baristas hid in the back from their work and divulged the travesties of their lives. It was Shakespeare in a kitchen. A window table cradled a man dressed in a form-fitting three-piece suit. The man’s watch alone could cover three years’ worth of his twenty-ounce mochas. The shine of his loafers suggested he was an important man and yet, he spent his night scrolling through a variety of dating apps. Money would never afford him companionship—not really. Behind him, another lonely soul slept in the corner, head down, wrinkled fingers clenched to a filthy quilt. The quilt hid the man’s face, but not his stench. It would not be long until the man in the shiny loafers and the impeccable suit would turn on him, would complain to the baristas, who would whine in turn, at the shameful stopping of their tales, and kick the old bum out into the rain, where the old man would lumber into the storm, a dinghy in the great swells, searching for some sanctuary at which to dock. It might be a concrete overhang—cold but dry. And it might not be. Oblivious to them all, sat a girl with a book. Her latte was untouched. It was cold, an hour old. The wonder in her eyes would have saved them all, had they looked. In her eyes was everything humanity aspired to be, everything that made this world good, and nature beautiful. Had they looked, the baristas might’ve given the old man a coffee and respite from the storm. Had he looked, the man in his suit might have spent less time shining his shoes and more time laughing. Had he looked, the old man might have tried again. But they didn’t.

Intermission:

If this is all that I write on this Monday night,
That is fine.
No scenes needed, no beating of the brain, 
I’m tired after all.

But so were they.

Benji pitted the cold air and the noise and the struggle against his other option—Oh, I could give up, he thought, give up and stay here in the warm. Say that I’m sick forever and never go back to that place where they force us to sit still and the mean women yells. Maybe I could run away, sleep with the buffalo—become one (Benji’s father had assured him that Benji could indeed do this if he wanted) so I don’t get cold in the winter—ah yes! I’d be short, it’s true—the shortest probably—but I’d be happy. I’m not happy there. Benji reached with his toes, thoroughly enjoying the weight of his covers. Ah god, I can’t! I just can’t do it! I won’t! I must go away. After all, each day here is the same, this battle royale in the morning darkness. The buffalo wouldn’t yell at me. I could eat and sleep and play whenever I wanted. I’d lay back late in the night, my thickly furred head resting on the grasses, my buffalo tongue lopped out on its side, and I’d grin at the stars and snort warm air out from my nostrils—A voice called from the other room. Oh. Mom. Benji thought. Would she come with me? She probably can’t turn into a buffalo since she’s been a woman so long. She doesn’t have the power, not like me. If she can’t do what I do, why, she’d never fit in! Benji’s heart fell silent at this. Would I get a new mother amongst the buffalo? Would I forget mom here? Benji curled his toes once more. He took a deep breath and sighed. The voice called again. Benji threw back his covers and went to her. One more day couldn’t hurt too bad, he thought.

A season had passed since he’d seen the trees and dry-grass field of the park. Maybe two had. He didn’t know; he couldn’t remember. In one of those fleeting moments where Jack snuck books to him so he could escape the signs and the speeches and the constant fear of the clubs across the way, he read a piece that dismissed beauty as something to be judged. It was said, in one masterful thought, the beauty was to be sensed—profoundly felt—that it was a natural phenomenon and was to be treated as such—and not some elementary pageant. Those words came to him now as he stepped amongst the dandelions. He was careful not to disturb their yellow pedals. Thunderheads rolled on above. Winds shook the tall cedars and oaks, branches waving, while little maples crouched in between.  He breathed deep. Sunlight broke through. Maybe it had been three seasons, he thought. He made to smoke but thought better of it—there was no need to soften the rain-fresh air. There was no need to change anything, here.

            Two rascals sullied the peace. They ran on all fours, heaving through the undergrowth, snapping dried limbs of past storm casualties, biting and growling at one another all the way. They made him smile. It had been too long. There was a time before the strike—before the committees, the police, the militias, and speeches—a time before the money—when the three had traveled under so many different trees in so many distant afternoons. A thought seared into his mind. Well, he thought, we were four then. A thunderhead’s wind blew his hair back, and he attributed the sudden darkening of the clouds to his imagination playing out before his eyes. Yes, we were four, he let slip, and we were happy. He clenched his eyes shut. He couldn’t afford to go that way—not now. Today was rare. Today was for the rascals, and he’d see that they keep it.

            He snapped from his dismal thoughts to find the older mutt careening back and forth with all four legs jabbing at the clouds above.

            “Get up!” he growled.

            The old dog leapt up, shaking off grass as he came, and yawned with a long, outstretched tongue and a satisfied old grin. He knew something.

            The dog’s white teeth and the mischievous eyes made the man laugh.

             “Ya old rascal,” he said. It made him happy that some things hadn’t changed. But then his nose curled as he noticed a brown smudge over the dog’s back.

            “Son of a bitch!” he barked, and the old dog ran off with his tongue loping out to the side of his mouth. “I hope you realize you’re getting a bath now.”

            The old dog fell back into rank at that, waddling behind his every step.

            “Oh,” he said, “playing the good dog won’t save you now.” He leaned down close and said, “Your fate is sealed.” And he got a very funny feeling at the pronunciation of those words.

            The old dog, however, declined to dignify the remark with so much as a nod.

            The two walked on, and he remembered a time once, way back it seemed, in the high country when it had been four of them and the world wasn’t a mess. The old dog was young then, nearly a pup, and had climbed into their tent covered in bear shit.

            He took a deep breath, and smiled to himself. The thunderheads above rolled purple. He whistled and the dogs followed. It was time to go. He’d been gone too long already.

            Yet there was the matter of a bath. He could not leave his old friend with a soiled coat in an empty house, so he set the spigot to warm, and climbed into the tub with the uneasy mutt.

            “Easy boy,” he whispered, “easy now.”

            He poured a cup of warm water over the dog’s back, over the smear. Muscles twitched under the fur. At the third cup, the dog heaved a heavy sigh, and accepted his fate, resting his head on his caretaker’s knee.
            Washing the dog made him remember times when he didn’t have to do this alone, and he wondered if the somber look in the dog’s eye suggested he wasn’t the only one.

            A breathless man worked his way up the stairs, ran down the hall, and knocked six times upon the door in rapid succession.

            “It’s happening. We need you in the square.”

            The voice sounded funny, carrying through the door. It sounded like a child speaking through a paper cup. He sighed, sitting there on the side of the tub. The young dog had fallen asleep on the floor, worn out from his time in the trees. The old dog wore a new towel and a new scent, courtesy of the day’s adventures. But his head was still there, his chin resting on the man’s knee. The old dog’s eyes watched the man’s turn to the door. It seemed he knew. The man rubbed the old dog’s ears a moment, everything in him screaming to stay, to remain, and to go back if he could—if only he could. But he could not. He knew that. So, he stood. He grabbed his coat from the counter and took two steps towards the door, where he halted. He looked back at the old dog, whose eyes watched him relentlessly.

            “Goodbye boy,” he whispered.
            He opened the door to find a disheveled young man out of breath.

            “I’m ready,” he said.