dumped on sunday

It’s chilly and I’ve actually stayed out late enough that everyone got drunk. To be fair, they started early.

I’m looking at my arms and my veins are standing up out of them as though something very important were happening at my fingertips and all the blood needed to get there on the quick. They snake and branch under my wristwatch like weird roots.

It’s bar stools and counter tops and cigarettes and apparently time to take the party to someone’s house. I get my jacket, hug these, shake hands with those.

Outside my bike is there with its one spoke card and old heavy faux brazed steel frame. I’m unlocking it and thinking “I am going to get dumped on Sunday.”

A homeless guy materializes from the black heart of the city and lopes along, wide eyed and sullen looking as I crank away down the bike path.

The wind is cold and the cars are bright on one end, drunk and annoyed in the middle, and then lit up again at the back. I’m floating along the stream like a twig sandwiched between and alongside logs in a log flume.

Bars sway and blare music into their insides and I can see slacks and belts and purses past my blinking reflection in the window.

I am pretty sure I am going to get dumped on Sunday.

And so, again into the night for me.