Everyone is afraid of meeting a stranger. I speak to a large man with a beard. He is concerned about his parking, how his car may be a health concern to some one, maybe even himself. It's probably a lot worse when he's driving it.
He shakes his hands as if they're wet and mentions how that is another story. His words are so demanding, they rack his body, sweating alcohol out of his diabetic pores. His thoughts drift to bitter taste of vitamins in the morning, greasy soap cracking the skin on his knuckles. Car rides consisting of impatient cigarette ash on the pant leg.
Why do I think of these important things?
Strangers that approach me at intersections while I'm selling my weeks for hundred dollar lump sums make me accelerate towards curbs. A stranger could embrace you. Or annex the love of your life as she dances uninhibatedly. You can always throw an elbow at him, and deny it later. Maybe picture yourself taking out his legs and getting a few fore arms in.
A lack of socialism is barely an excuse, as trucks eyeball slowly looking for labor.
Their parties always border on Oregon Bad. Some nights there are only neighbors and weird relatives--the step mom's daughter with the nice guitar and good malt liquor. No one notices your port wine, so you can stain your lips red some more. Stranger here wants to know if you like Salvia and an obscure 80's movie.
The sound of silence cuts behind his head. Strange times already with mom sitting there. Get her out of here so I can vomit. She seems to want to touch me when I tell her I've got a job downtown. I don't really know her step daughter at all, or the people that I work with. Sometimes I like being a stranger.
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