overhead, stars are snarled in a gridlock. down webster avenue, way past the cross bronx expressway overpass, car honks ping one another into the distances of the night.
the strange man, fuddled from all that cerveza in the party of one of his neighbors, leans against the bus stop. he presses his right foot against the grimy wall of the shed. but his foot loses grip. to regain balance, he, not self-conscious at all, leans on me. the three other guys waiting for the bus pay us no mind. emboldened, he persists to rest against me.
"wouldn't it be tight," he slightly slurs, "to go to santo domingo?" i smile. "you are really pissed drunk," i said. "no, really," he said, "i'd like to go to santo domingo with you. la playa, el sol, nadie mas." taken unawares, i only manage to say, "you are really fucked up." "aight," he gives up.
he stares at his watch then looks up at me and starts to say something, again. he decides not to while a yellow cab zips by. we watch the cab drive over the ruts until the darkness in the distance swallows its once flashing yellow tail.
