John’s Mystery Train,
I scribble again in my journal, using my secret language. He glances over my shoulder, puzzled.
Is this Hebrew? he asks.
I raise my notebook to him. Have you ever seen it before? I say.
He stares at my doodles.
I know John plays the guitar,
His shoulder-length hair is ink dark, and he closely resembles a singer whose voice I find alluringly seductive. (I was having difficulty talking to John; he was tongue-numbing handsome.)
As the landscape dissolves, I wrack my brain for a good ending to this tale. Alas, none is found in the chambers of my mind.
Another misty day, I think as I crack open my eyes.
8AM, announce the digits on the clock’s face.