In the backyard there are bins of freshly picked fruit mangoes that you can only eat with your hands juice dripping down to turn dry earth into mud it is hot, here so hot and I am trying to be okay with that (I wonder if anyone knows where we are) but I can't help thinking about the drive along the Spanish coast memories of manchego and anchovies by the sea churros with chocolate interrupted by a train pulling out of the station in the dark almost dawn while I drink sweet (too sweet) iced coffee eating a nectarine with McDonald's hash browns that taste like the bus from Krakow back to Prague I have just left my parents' house the flavors of childhood lingering on my tongue wheat thins and cheddar butter on fresh baked bread scallops with lemon but there is not much time to savor it because, now we are sitting at a Korean Barbecue restaurant in Midtown eating too much food and drinking too much sake someone says that this must be a liminal space after "Last Christmas" plays for what must be the twentieth time I decide it is a good night for walking home or at least back to the train but instead I wake up abruptly in Bridgeport two blonde men are moving quickly down the aisle and the coffee is burned the sun has barely risen covered in part by clouds a grey-haired man tips his hat and asks to take the seat next to mine I say yes, of course and we ride in silence wheels on tracks trees in windows Brooklyn bound
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