Beyond G

He parks, cuts the engine, sits for a moment, headlights dimming. He tries to rationalize why he is here, why he is still racing to be free of his own gravity. The store is a low level spaceship in a starless lot. The few parked cars have leagues of loneliness between them. Cars have emptied out their occupants, empty carts bump over yellow-signed borders. The store has icebergs, chunks collide beyond aisle G. Late night shoppers wade anchorless between high stacked cliffs seeking to land a glittering neon wrapped desire, something to radiate their dreams with. Anyone that matters is not here. The manager is a nightshift knife attack, if asked, ‘where to find’ he will gut you with a metallic grin. Then he sees her, she with topaz moons slung from each ear, she with the dragon tattoo arm sleeve, her fierce half-cupped little breasts daring anyone to be kind. He understands, the long night is pouring into castaway hands, he and she are waiting to be mesmerized, willing the faceted bottles to be the sparkle of their eyes. He wants to be kind to her, to take her home to his pod on the wrong side of the moon, but she is feral, she is warpaint on a wild horse, and he a broken purveyor of bad news. Beyond G, a ruffled toll-keeper with hatchet arms checks-out the sundry of departing misfits. They will all leave separately and secretly to tunnel into more makeshift hours to come. The cheap booze is in the back, yet it will stay rattling between his eyes until he drives just far enough away to be a distance from himself.