Handkerchiefs On A Washing Line

One is a puddle on the floor, and has been for some time; that fleeting glance was all too much. Not a talker, the other has been silent now for long minutes without occasioning comment, lost in his drink and his mortification, the red rim of the solo cup white where he’s flexed it. Nerves.

The Gentlemen run conversations in their heads, dream of humming some song as they pass in the street and seeing some stranger head prick up and swivel knowingly toward them. Beyond speaking, what they imagine is that moment of knowing, of being known, of passing a code openly and without possibility of interception.

The Gentlemen ever meet thus, in crowded rooms, in restaurants during the busy time, without speaking, without acknowledgement. They circle around each other nonetheless, tethered together like planets, like stars, like galaxies and black holes, carving through space as a single unbreakable system.