Of Gypsies
I met a Gypsy the other day. He was ordering a drink in the old pub that made its bearing on the corner of Hemming Street; "Since 1914" read the sign above its doorway.
One need not be especially learned in one's knowledge of various cultural attires to know what a Gypsy looks like. Even so, I stared long and hard at his solemn, bearded face before sitting down at the chair across from him.
"Good morning," I muttered.
The Gypsy glanced up at me for a moment as one glances at a weed, then returned to sipping his glass, which rested lightly in the cup of his hand. "Good morning," he said.
I opened my mouth to speak again, then closed it, blushing. "I'm sorry," I said. "I've never had a conversation with a Gypsy before."
"Then there is nothing more to say," said the Gypsy flatly, and walked out the door.
A Walk
When I was small, my grandpa, whose wife had long since passed away, woke me, sometime deep into night's embrace. My blankets had been all but kicked about onto the floor, sweaty and invisible. They were red; I had chosen them because they looked so much like the ocean.
"Accompany me on a walk," he said. His breath was hot.
So we walked. We walked, not speaking, draped still in our drooping nightclothes. The moon had reached the end of its cycle. The stars shone dark and flickering from behind passing clouds. I asked him once where he intended to go.
"Somewhere warm," he replied.
After a while of silence, Grandpa's foot caught on a rock and he fell sprawled across the dirt. He was crying.
"Why does this hill seem so long?" he said.
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