They met at a place between now, then, and when.
Through my weighted monocles, from my perch on high, I see them both synchronize their watches and their gaze.
Should I yell down and tell them it’s all a waste of time?
Who wants to be “that guy”!?
I don’t and I have more important things to do. Like try to figure out how to get the fuck down off this thing.
A year and a half marched through them and still I watch teetering on exhaustion. I watch their interior comfort, their consumption of osmosis, and the consequent static. The arch greets me at the center, the highlighted climax of beginning and end spits me square in the face. Moose ears, even. And I begin to anticipate the free fall of the other shoe dropping.
She must have set her watch a second too late and he a second two soon. Their feet dangle in the air as they can no longer rely on their ability to control time or their sheer faith of the known narrative. No longer able to tell themselves the future.
I’m about to fall asleep because watching this situation isn’t particularly exciting. It’s actually pretty boring and I’m pissed because now it’s too far away from me.
I can finish the story.
He can’t hold it in his hand and she doesn’t point a finger.