I never made eye contact with him. On the platform, the Spaniard held a suitcase with his right hand. His fingers were like fat sausages squeezed together tightly in a jar, preserved in vinegar. He held a hand rolled cigarette and pressed his thick hand to his mouth and took a drag that crackled like the beginning of a small fire. I thought for sure during his boisterous exhale he'd make eye contact, but I only saw his tobacco colored eyes, he didn't see mine.
The chalky, flat rocks pile up horizontally and reach for the mint colored facade inviting trouble. Then, through the fog a translucent bag blurs glass blown, orange leaves that bend like wet cardboard under the weight of my average frame. My knees electrically pop in the humidity as I reach out for the damp bag. A porcelain but mud covered thigh appears as more of the body is revealed. A fat swallow, perched on an electric wire looks over the clearing. I instantly choke on the odor of wet leaves and abandoned flesh. I replace the bag and carry on.
The car flutters along the crystal covered highway as Jackson drives but also views himself from the side of the road. Noisy children fight. The family passes under the bridge and Jackson stands on the side of the interstate watching his own car slipping off the road as he holds up a Roman Candle projecting balls of blue, red, and orange colored whispers that burn as they tear through the sky and the dreams of the family. Metal wraps around concrete and the warm remains of the Roman Candle, fall to the earth and melt the immediate snow. The smell of fireworks linger and penetrate the senses with no sign of fading.
