still snoring at eight something in the morning, the strange man looks clueless. of things necessary. of bus schedules. the rigidity of payroll masters.
i touch him, his abs dewing with late morning sweat. the tattoo of the name of his ex girlfriend on his right chest, a wiggling, furry caterpillar. not making any headway. unaware that the sun has risen.
he makes a face at me, then glances sideways at the watch on the wall. beside it, a poster of bruce lee, its right hand corner, fraying, curling. bruce holds aloft a nunchakus. he is an asian moses charging whoever listens to go cross the parted channel. now.
again, i tap the strange man's abs. he stares at me as if asking why do we have to do this? this rising to this alarm, without any snooze button, then dashing on to catch the 9:25 or at worst the 9:45? and for what?
my very same questions. but i can't encourage him. i promised myself i will be someone good for him.
i muster a smile. my way (disingenous, perhaps, but so is this world) of saying, we can take what this world throws our way. no preocupe, mi amor, ningun problema. you and i and bruce lee, we are all men.
