She told me; I want to tell you three things and I want you to shut up whilst I’m talking. Holding up a hand, she extended a finger as she counted. There’s a dream… a memory… and a verdict. They are connected, but I don’t know how.
The bridge creaked in the wind, bustling through the narrow valley below. Our bare, dirty feet hung into the abyss, as curious animals peered up to see whether we were a threat or just angels. I passed the half bottle of warm liquor and she ingested it with the grim determination of someone enduring minor surgery without pain relief.
She told me that she dreams about The Boy. How he always appears in the background; leaning on a postbox as she walks through 1920’s Berlin, or in the seventh row of a Stones gig she imagined she attended.
She told me about a…
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